


The One-Armed Tailor

by ACometAppears



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Anyways, BI STEVE, Bisexual Steve, Disability, Gen, Genderqueer Bucky, Heavy Petting, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Non Binary Bucky Barnes, Non-Binary Bucky, PTSD, Pansexual Bucky, Scars, Steve is still Captain America, Trans Steve, Veteran Bucky, a bit of harassment in the workplace, a bit of man-handling, a happy ending????, ableism (minor), about as close as i get to a rom-com or something like that, about as heavy as you can get without getting squashed, and he doesn't have his metal limb because he's not the winter soldier here, disabled Bucky, don't worry i'm not a cis person blithely writing about two trans characters, he doesn't use a prosthesis usually because of his phantom limb syndrome, pan Bucky, some violence, surgery scars, tailor Bucky, trans man Steve, transphobia (minor)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4792829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve manages to wreck the first Captain America suit he got after waking up in the 21st century, he decides to go to a tailor Natasha recommends to him, to make him a new one. At least, that's why he goes originally. He gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea came to me in a dream while I was at comic con. I thought that there should be a shop for in particular non-SHIELD sponsored superheroes to get their suits at, that's discrete but accessible, and not too expensive. Then I got to thinking about working that thought into a story, and here we are!! This is about as close as I get to a rom-com, so you know. Anyways
> 
> Thanks to jay (@winterghosting) on twitter for listening to me talk about this for ages. I hope you like this, buddy!!
> 
> There will be a three or four chapters, and I have more written already (and the rest planned out), so we'll see how long this ends up being. Enjoy!!

Radioactive waste isn’t easy to wash off clothes. 

It’s not even easy to wash off your body – as Steve finds out, when he’s ushered into a chemical shower, with about four different people scrubbing him down, just in case. It makes him cringe to be naked in front of them, but really, he knows it’s unavoidable. He goes somewhere else in his head, for a bit, until it’s over. 

The others, it would seem, avoided the brunt of the radioactivity they encountered at the latest mishap involving the Roxxon power corporation: they managed to save New York from being levelled to the ground, between them. Steve was the only one affected by the chemical spill, though – which is probably good, Tony pointed out unhelpfully, as he’s probably one of the only team members who’d be able to withstand that kind of hit without dying of radiation poisoning immediately, or cancer in the long-term. 

He was checked, anyway. He’s just fine. But unfortunately for Tony, there’s no cure for being an insensitive asshole. 

The real problem comes when he realises that his suit has been incinerated: everything from his head right down to his toes – and even his _underwear_ – is gone. So, naturally, he goes to SHIELD R &D to ask for a new suit. 

They tell him it’s going to be 5-7 months. He’s got a lot of very particular parts, to his suit, and the colours aren’t standard issue, they say – _you’re one of a kind, Cap!_ In the meantime, he’ll just have to wear STRIKE gear. 

So when he sees Natasha, later that day, he’s pissed off. Probably a good thing, to motivate him, during their sparring sessions. 

“And then they gave me some black gear – something with leather in it – and a lot of straps – I don’t know – it’s hot – It’s tight – And it doesn’t fit too well,” He says, in between jabbing at the pads Natasha is holding up for him, during their warm-up.  
“Jesus,” Natasha says, with an amused smirk. “I bet you look a picture in that,”  
“It’s the only thing they had vaguely in my size,” Steve says irritably, not breaking a sweat, as he aims a spinning kick at her hands.  
“Huh,” Natasha grunts, before discarding the pads. She cracks her neck, stretches her arms out, and brings her fists up. They’ve both wrapped their hands already. 

“I never wear that standard-issue SHEILD stuff,” Natasha says, aiming a double kick at his stomach, which he blocks with his forearms, spinning away and trying to kick her back. She dodges acrobatically.  
“Really?” He asks, blocking as she aims a punch to his flank, and bringing her arm up to try and hit her back.  
“Yeah,” She says. “Shit’s nasty as hell. So – I’ve got a guy. A small company, actually. Very discrete,” She mentions. Steve hums, as she backflips away from him. “I can give you the name, if you like? And the address?” 

Steve huffs, circling her again.  
“I don’t know,” He says, going in with a left jab – she grabs his arm, and uses it to hoist herself into the air, and wrap her thighs around the back of his neck. _Shoulda seen that coming_. He stands still with her sitting on his shoulders, as she says,  
“They’ll make whatever you ask for. They’ve got a lot of clients – SHIELD agents like us, and other . . . Well, others,” She explains. “There’s this one guy. The tailor. Ex-military. Your kinda guy, I think. He made my suit – then Stark added all his tech to it. He’ll do you right,” 

Steve’s arms surge up, grabbing her waist and flipping her forward onto the mat – but she lands gracefully, as always, flipping her legs around to try and trip him up. He hops over them, though, remaining standing as she jumps to her feet. 

“I don’t know. I . . . I’d have to tell him a lot about myself. You can never be too careful,” Steve says.  
“Is this about you being trans?” She asks bluntly. He swallows, pausing – then nods. He’s glad she doesn’t treat him like he’s made of glass, or blithely pretend he’s cis like some people who he’s come out to, when it comes to his gender identity.  
“I can’t say I understand. Because I can’t, completely. But he might. And he’d never, ever tell anyone. The business thrives on confidentiality. They’d lose so many clients. It just wouldn’t be worth it,” Natasha reasons. “You know me, anyway. If I didn’t trust him – _really_ trust him – I wouldn’t have gone to him at all,” 

Steve’s arms drop to his sides: he’s frowning, now, in thought. He hates his stopgap costume – he feels at one with the Captain America costume, now, given that it’s a piece of him he’s brought with him, into a world so unfamiliar. He weighs up whether it’s worth it. 

“Does it cost a lot?” He asks. She puts her hands on her hips.  
“No. I’ve seen costumes for teenagers, in there. And besides – you’ve gotta be one of the richest guys I know, all things considered. Aside from Tony,” Natasha points out. Steve nods, taking it in. 

She throws a punch at his face, and he catches it in his fist, stopping her in her tracks. 

“. . . Where can I find this place?” 

She smiles. 

-

It’s not what Steve’s expecting. Fair enough, he didn’t really know _what_ to expect – but he at least didn’t expect to see the name of the shop listed above a fancy restaurant in downtown Manhattan. He thought it might be surrounded by other textiles shops, or slightly more covert than that. But then again, no one gives the listed name, Red Star Textiles, a second glance as they walk past the restaurant. They all seem to ignore the set of stairs beside the buzzer, which presumably leads up to the studio. 

Steve tugs his collar a little higher, as he reads the sign above the buzzer that says delivery around back, and the one that says _no unauthorised personnel_. He almost walks away. This place doesn’t seem like what Natasha promised. Despite her assurances, he still worries that he might not be able to afford it, even with his SHIELD salary and the interest on his bank account, if the exterior he can see is anything to go by. 

But he steels himself, looking both ways, before stepping up and pressing the buzzer. It rings for a few seconds. He glances up at the security camera at the corner of the door, wondering who’s staring back at him. 

After a minute or two, there’s a clicking noise, as the door unlocks: he pushes it open, looking inside furtively, before stepping in. His posture is defensive, as he takes the metal-capped stairs up to the first floor. He wonders why they let him in. _Am I really recognisable? People don’t see my actual face often. They don’t even know my real name. Unless they can get down to the Smithsonian._

He pushes open the door labelled Red Star Textiles leading out of the stairwell, and is taken aback by the stark change in tone: far from the sleek, expensive, impersonal exterior, the interior is rather . . . _Homely_. 

As far as Steve’s eyes can see, rails of costumes are lined up, hanging with tags on, looking forlorn without their owners to wear them. In front of Steve is a large desk, with small pieces of fabrics strewn about it, and a huge ring-binder with notes scribbled in appalling handwriting, left out and seemingly abandoned. Steve notices another large table across the room: next to a huge, obviously one-way window, there’s a bench with a sewing machine on it. It’s not like any Steve’s ever seen, though: whoever it belongs to has adapted it, somehow. There’s a lot of extra attachments: he can’t think what they’re for. Of course, he never studied _tailoring_ – all he really knows is how to darn his socks – so he can’t say it’s really out of the ordinary. Hell, he doesn’t even own a sewing machine. Maybe if he was any good, he wouldn’t be here. 

But he’s here anyway. He just wants to check it out. Then he _might_ consider _thinking about_ commissioning a costume. _Maybe_. 

The sun shines in, giving the room an airy feel: though there are rolls of fabric and hanging costumes everywhere, their presence isn’t oppressive, and the place doesn’t feel cramped. Everything is, at least, sorted into sectors. 

Steve makes his way over to a mannequin, looking around to check that he isn’t being observed: it’s a woman’s bust, with a half-finished costume that’s red on top, and blue on the bottom. Pinned to the centre of the chest is an artfully-embroidered golden star. Steve wonders who it’s for. 

The place smells of fabric – something that’s hard to put into words – it’s a smell Steve finds he likes, though it’s quite unfamiliar to him. He doesn’t even have that many clothes of his own, in his apartment. Natasha had to lend him these shoes, these jeans, this jacket, this cap, for his disguise – at least she had some menswear. He’d have hated to have to dress in clothes meant for women. He can’t deal with being misgendered as well as being in this brand new, potentially judgemental environment right now. 

He sniffs the air, a second later – he can suddenly smell something like _burning_. He frowns, because he can’t identify the smell. He wonders if he should find someone, and say something. 

He moves around the large table, and towards an open doorway, which presumably leads to some sort of back room, with even more tools and tables to work on. _They must have a lot of employees here_ , he thinks, despite the fact Natasha only told him about one man. He can hear the sound of possibly more than one washing machine in the distance. Big ones, by the sound of it. That can’t be what’s causing the smell. 

But there’s no smoke. Just the smell of something _hot_. Then-

“Fuck!” 

Steve startles, grabbing hold of the table to his right, and backing up from the doorway slightly. 

“Ah, shit – work with me here, _jesus_ -” 

Steve finds himself smiling, though he doesn’t know the context of the words: they have a pleading quality to them that makes him think that whoever’s speaking is probably talking to an inanimate object. 

He hears a great sigh. “Fine. Later, then,” The voice mutters in annoyance. 

Then he hears footsteps. Steve busies himself trying to look like he wasn’t just eavesdropping on whatever was just happening – he looks down at the bench he just grabbed, and sees a pincushion made up to look like spider-man’s head. Steve smiles at it, and wonders if he’s been here. He remembers Natasha’s words about teenagers frequenting this place, and finally reasons that he probably _will_ be able to afford it, after all. 

“Can I help you?” Steve looks up when he hears the same voice as before, but substantially less pissed off – as Steve brings his gaze up, he vaguely registers tape wrapped around one of the fingers of the man’s right hand, which looks a little red. A burn, perhaps. The hot smell fades in the silence. 

He glances up at his face: he doesn’t look too long, but what he sees, he has a hard time looking at straight-on. He always feels a little embarrassed and flustered, around attractive people. 

The man is perhaps a little shorter than he is: his hair is long on the right, and very short on the left, as Steve’s seen people wear it downtown, of late. He’s no spring chicken, but he can’t be older than his late twenties – maybe a little younger than Steve, aside from the _obvious_ age difference. His eyelids are lined with black, and his face is obscured by several days’ worth of stubble. Steve looks away quick, turning his face away, in case he immediately identifies him. 

But there’s no gasp, no pointing – no exclamation of, _oh my god! You’re Captain America!_ – which is good, because Steve didn’t wake up in the mood for that, today. 

All he says is, “Sorry about the – _just now_. I just burned myself pretty bad with the hot glue gun. I’m all thumbs sometimes,” He says, and shrugs with a sly smile that Steve can’t help but gaze directly at, at least for a few seconds. 

When he shrugs, Steve’s gaze is drawn for the first time, too, to his left arm: or rather, where it should be. He takes a few seconds to register that about three-quarters of the man’s arm is missing, with what’s left emerging from the rolled-up sleeve of his t-shirt. It’s covered in tattoos, just like the other arm. Steve’s not been a fan of needles, since the procedure. 

“Yup, I’m missing an arm. What were you after today?” The man says conversationally, dismissing Steve’s thoughts by making him realise he’s staring. _Like an asshole_. 

“Oh – no, I didn’t mean to-” Steve stutters. The man’s eyes are such a dark blue. Like the arctic sea. He feels like he’s gonna fall in.  
“It’s fine. Let me guess-” The man squints slightly, fishing in the front pocket of his dungarees for something or other. “Nomad?”  
“Uh – no,” Steve says. “I was just, um . . . I was wondering if I’d be able to get a suit made up,” 

The man continues searching in his pockets, frowning and looking down – then he casts his gaze around, looking past Steve. 

“Pencil . . . Pencil . . .” He mutters, as if he can summon it. Steve smiles a little. He points behind the man’s ear.  
“There,” He says. The man reaches up, and plucks the pencil from its resting place, rolling his eyes – before smiling gratefully at Steve. 

“Alright. You’re forgiven. This your first time?” The man asks.  
“Uh . . . Yes,” Steve says, not sure what to say to that. Because it’s certainly not his first suit. The man leads him over to the largest table, pushing scraps of material out of the way. “How did you know to let me in?” Steve asks, the question occurring to him suddenly. 

The man snorts. “You all dress the same. You all think a baseball cap and your collar pulled up is a good disguise. I had you figured out the second I saw you on the camera,”  
“. . . Oh,” Steve says, a little embarrassed. He makes a mental note to change up his civilian disguises. Maybe he should just use his own clothes, from now on.  
“You need me to design something, then. Or did you have something you wanted it to look like?” The man asks, scribbling on a blank piece of paper in his ring-binder. Steve watches him write, then continues staring at the paper when he stops, just wondering what to say.  
“I have a suit,” Steve says. He bites his lip. “I . . . I need another one,” 

“Mmm,” The man says, encouraging him. 

He quickly looks up at the man – clearly he’s not expecting it, because he was _definitely_ just checking Steve out. He brings his eyes up from Steve’s ass, which is kind of sticking out due to him leaning his forearms on the bench, as quickly as he can. But when you’re a super soldier, you tend to process these things a lot quicker. 

Steve licks his lips, averting his gaze from the man’s face, as he has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, and not bring up what just happened. 

“I don’t know if this is for me,” Steve says, thinking that he should just wait for SHIELD R&D – this place is amazing, sure, but he’s not sure he can trust this random guy he’s never met before. He’s a great-looking guy, but that’s not enough for Steve to trust someone. He barely trusts _anyone_ anymore – not with his secrets, not with his identity, not with his body. And that’s definitely something he’d have to share with this guy, at least a little, if he wants a suit made by him. 

He blinks down at the guy’s right arm, eyes tracking the shape of a great red-eyed wolf, and feels more than a little intimidated. It’s stupid, really. He’s just not ready for this. He’s making a fool of himself, for sure. 

“You can come back another time, if you want,” The guy says, straightening. Steve watches him, as he visibly looks Steve up and down thoughtfully – Steve guesses he can see the conflict about this situation playing out on Steve’s face. “Just – make sure you come back. Who else am I gonna count on to find my pencils for me?” 

Steve finds himself smiling. 

“By the way – you can call me Bucky,” Bucky invites him, reaching out with his hand to take Steve’s hand – Steve grips it, shaking it firmly. He used to hate being treated like he was made of glass, when he was very obviously disabled.  
“Steve,” Steve says, but cringes anyway, because he’s waiting for the moment that Bucky’s going to freak out on him. _It could happen any time, now_. 

“Alright, _Steve_ ,” Bucky says, as if he thinks it’s a fake name, one eyebrow raised. “You come back soon, now,” 

Steve gives him a small smile, genuinely happy, because he’s been given an out: as he leaves the shop, he thinks that Bucky must be more sensitive than his appearance would have you believe, if he could tell Steve wanted to get out of there; wasn’t ready, just yet. 

_Maybe I will, Bucky_ , he thinks. _Maybe I will_. 

-

Of course he goes back. 

Bucky’s in the small room he uses as a kitchen – no more than a cupboard, really – sipping on a cup of coffee that tastes like ass, and texting spider-man to _please_ come and pick up his goddamn suit, _you look like you got shat out by the Hulk, you’re giving me a bad name – or you would be, if people thought I made you that raggedy suit_ – when Rumlow appears in the doorway, folding his arms and appraising Bucky harshly. He leans one shoulder on the doorjamb, and regards Bucky’s boots, where he’s got them crossed on the table. 

“Customer,” He grunts. “Pretty-boy. Asked for you by name. You know this ain’t a knockin'-shop, Barnes?”  
“Shut the fuck up Rumlow,” Bucky says, sipping on his coffee, before setting it down for a minute to rub his temples. If it’s Cyclops he’s going to pretend, to his face, that he’s not home. _Maybe I can get away with it if I pretend hard enough._

“Maybe if you stopped dressing like rent-boy you wouldn’t get so confused,” Rumlow says, as Bucky stands up and makes his way to the doorway. Bucky glares at him, and tries to squeeze past. “Or maybe you do it on purpose?” Rumlow asks, breath hot against his neck, as he tries to get past. He smells like stale cigarettes. Bucky gave up a long time ago. “God knows you need to get laid,”  
“Do you ever shut the fuck up, or is that just a myth? You know, like alligators in the sewers?” Bucky grits out, making his way past, and resisting the urge to spill his coffee down Rumlow’s neck. He tries not to let Rumlow’s words get to him. _Tries_. 

“That’s no way to talk to your boss!” Rumlow calls after him down the corridor. “Have a little respect, Barnes!” 

Bucky would stick his middle finger up, but he’s holding his mug. _I’ll just have to think about it really, really hard._

Bucky stomps out into the workroom, his expression stormy after having his personal space violated and his clothing choices well and truly shamed – but when he catches sight of Steve, his expression changes significantly. He suddenly doesn’t feel like this is such a bad day. He doesn’t know that he could be unhappy, after looking at someone as gorgeous as Steve. He’s regretted being so dismissive of him, when they first met, ever since. 

“Steve! You came back,” He says, spreading his arm wide. What’s left of his left arm follows – he feels his phantom limb move too, causing him to clench, and cramp. He tries to ignore it, not letting his discomfort alter his smile.  
“The friend that recommended you – there’s no way she would let me stay away. She had a lot to say about you, in particular,” Steve admits, and Bucky can see a small blush high in his cheeks, as he scratches the back of his head.  
“Really? Who’s your friend?” Bucky asks, eyebrows raised. This could either be really good, or _really bad_. 

“. . . So, if I do this, what comes first?” Steve asks, gaze lowering to Bucky’s ring-binder of notes, dismissing his question. That’s okay, though: he half-expected that answer. Superheroes are a secretive, tight-knit network, for the most part. Then there’s spider-man. 

“I’d need to see some pictures, and get some templates, of your old costume, if you’ve got ‘em,” Bucky says, setting his coffee down and taking a pencil up from the table; spinning it between his fingers dexterously. He watches Steve watch him. He smiles. 

“So you’ll be able to know if you can make it?” Steve asks, interested.  
“Please – I’ll be able to make it . . . You don’t go underwater or anything, do you?” Bucky says, wincing.  
“No,” Steve says, laughing a little.  
“Good. That’s always a pain in the ass. But yeah, I’ll be able to make it. I just need to make it exactly the same. Same silhouette,” Bucky explains. Steve nods.  
“Then what?”  
“Fitting. I take your measurements, make sure you’re lookin' your absolute best when you’re kicking ten kinds of shit out of the foot clan, or whatever,” Bucky says. Steve smiles blithely – as if he knows it’s a joke, but he doesn’t get it. Bucky makes a mental note not to make movie references, where he can help it. 

“Then we sort out price, based on materials, and stuff. Don’t worry – it’s not that expensive, really. You talk to my boss about that,” Bucky says, nodding towards the back room.  
“The guy from before?”  
“Yeah. He’s my supervisor. He doesn’t own the business, but he’s . . . Yeah. He’s in charge of me. Doesn’t know shit about sewing, but you know,” Bucky says, his expression grim. Steve frowns.  
“. . . I don’t have pictures and stuff with me today. And my old suit is kind of, uh . . . Massively wrecked,” He admits. Bucky looks at his watch.  
“I could have you in for a fitting right now, if you like? – I've got time if you have,” Bucky inquires. 

Steve freezes up, expression completely still, for a few moments. Bucky waits patiently, but after a little while, he frowns. Surely Steve doesn’t have anything to hide? _He’s got the body of a deity under those clothes, right?_

“. . . Steve?” Bucky asks, his voice much gentler than Steve’s heard it before. There’s a look of grim recognition on his face. Steve swallows.  
“Yes. I have time,” He says, nodding stiffly.  
“Relax. It won’t take long,” Bucky promises. That's not what Steve's apprehensive about, but he nods all the same. 

“Come through-” Bucky says, leading the way to the back room – he heads down the corridor, past the break room, from which he can see Rumlow glaring lecherously at him. He ignores him. 

Steve follows him past a bunch of different rooms, until he finds his way into a room with a large set of mirrors, and a stool, ready for him to have his measurements taken. Steve steps nervously into the room, almost flinching when the door clunks shut: Bucky locks it, for privacy. 

“Now,” Bucky says, turning to him, and taking a measuring tape from a hook on the wall, before slinging it over his shoulder. “This . . . Costume. Is it quite tight?”  
“Yes,” Steve replies softly. Bucky nods.  
“I’m gonna have to ask you to take your clothes off – not all at once. We’ll start with your legs, alright?” 

Steve licks his lips, unbelievably nervous. He’s really putting trust in this guy. But there’s just something about Bucky that screams _trust me_. Maybe it’s the insignia of the 107th infantry on the back of his right shoulder, which Steve saw under his thin vest, when he was following him to the room. 

There’s no guarantees, for someone like him. None but the fact that some people will take issue with who he is; his body, and mind. But he’s willing to fight those people over it. There’s nothing wrong with him. 

So he softly says, “Okay,” 

Bucky indicates for him to start undressing: he slowly undoes his belt while Bucky grabs a clipboard, and writes out all the measurements he wants to make. Almost flinching with the movement, he pulls down his trousers, revealing his boxer briefs. Bucky takes cursory look at him, and doesn’t make any indication that he thinks anything is out of place. Steve wants to be relieved – but he’s really just waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“Step up,” Bucky says, and Steve does. Bucky tells him, “When I press the tape to your skin, hold it there. I’ll bring the rest around, then write down the measurement. Alright?” Bucky says. “You gotta help me out here,”  
“Sure,” Steve says, with a stifled smile. 

Bucky kneels down in front of him, and Steve can’t help but blush when he winks up at him. He averts his gaze, knowing that his thighs have probably gone blotchy.  
“Full-body blusher, huh?” Bucky murmurs, pressing the tape to Steve’s skin. Steve bends down to hold it in place, as Bucky wraps it around his calf. His touch is remarkably caring, for someone who’s fairly intimidating. But then again, maybe Steve’s just old fashioned – he really needs to update his ideas about who’s out to get him. After all, he of all people should know not to judge a book by it’s cover. 

“Ever since I was a kid,” Steve admits. Bucky chuckles, scribbling the measurement down. They repeat the procedure on the second calf in silence. Before Steve knows it, he’s holding the tape in place, as Bucky wraps it around his upper thigh. He’s suddenly acutely aware of how sensitive his skin is, in that area: as Bucky’s thumb brushes along the inside of his thigh, and the cold tape warms against his skin, he bites his lip, concentrating on his breathing. Bucky hums slightly. 

He’s brought out of his thoughts when Bucky says, “Dress left or right?” 

Steve swallows, feeling his blood rush to his toes. He hates having to explain this. 

“Oh, uh . . . Look, I-” He brings his hand around to the front of his boxers, covering the front. Bucky raises his eyebrows, and looks up at Steve, wondering why he’s so reluctant to answer. “It’s a packer,” Steve says, his face burning.  
“Oh,” Bucky says, the realisation dawning on him. “Sorry. I should have realised. That’s fine, obviously,” He says. There’s a short awkward pause, during which Bucky takes up his clipboard, and scribbles something down. As he does so, he finally mutters, “Always good to meet someone else like me,”

“What?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows. Because he doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone who’s admitted to being like him.  
“Trans, I mean. Not afab. But c’mon – as if anyone who looks like me could be cis,” Bucky says. Steve smiles, feeling a substantial weight drop from his shoulders. _Finally_ he can relax, somewhat. There’s still a significant hurdle to go, here, but at least that’s the major bombshell dropped.  
“Non-binary?” Steve asks, because he’s educated himself. It was the first thing on his list.  
“Genderqueer,” Bucky confirms. “I use he/him, though,” He adds. “. . . I shouldn’t have made any assumptions, Steve. I’m sorry,”  
“Yeah, well. I shouldn’t have stared at your arm. I’m sorry about that. I still feel like an asshole,” Steve says, shaking his head.  
“Everyone does it. It’s really fine,” Bucky says, waving away his apology as he stands up. 

But Steve reaches out, and takes him gently by the shoulder, drawing his gaze.  
“It’s not, though. Believe me, I know. It’s not. And I really am sorry,” 

Bucky looks down at his hand, and licks his lips, before slowly looking back to his face.  
“. . . Apology accepted,” He says finally, with a smile. He sounds so used to dismissing the behaviour of others. It makes Steve wonder how long he’s been dealing with this. “Put your trousers back on. We’ll do your chest,” 

Steve does as he says: despite the fact Bucky clearly has scars of his own, and is trans himself, he still feels that familiar sense of dread he always gets when showing his top surgery scars to anyone who hasn’t seen them before, that he doesn’t know very well. He’s usually fine with them, he doesn’t mind them at all – not around Natasha, or Helen Cho, or Thor – but when new SHIELD physicians stare, and whisper to one another, he can’t help but feel self-conscious. It’s like they’ve never seen a super soldier with scars from top surgery before, or something. 

Yes, he sometimes wishes that the serum could just erase the scars. But usually, he’s proud of them. He’s proud of himself. 

So he carefully removes his t-shirt. Bucky doesn’t even flinch at the scars. But he does address them. 

“. . . Do you mind if I touch you?” Bucky says, staring down at Steve’s chest with a practised eye. Steve nods, so he reaches out, and runs his thumb over the left scar. He nods. “Sensitive?” He asks.  
“. . . A little,” Steve admits.  
“Right. We’ll take that into account,” Bucky says, nodding. They start their measurements again. 

After a couple of minutes of silence, Bucky asks out of the blue, “So. Who’s your favourite Avenger?”  
Steve pauses, surprised at the question – Bucky’s not looking at his face, too busy staring down at the tape to register his expression.  
“What?” Steve asks, taken aback and unprepared for the question.  
“Just makin' conversation, Steve. Any thoughts?” Bucky says casually.  
“I – haven’t really thought about it,” Steve says.  
“I have. I’ve thought about it a lot,” Bucky freely admits, wrapping the tape around Steve’s waist.  
“. . . What did you decide?” Steve asks curiously.  
“Well,” Bucky says, removing the tape, and noting something down, before moving up Steve’s chest. “Iron Man’s an asshole. Anyone who screams _capitalist_ that much is probably friends with Donald Trump, you know?” 

Steve has to suppress a laugh – it almost kills him, but the measurements will be off, if his chest starts moving now. 

“Thor seems kind of cool, though. Had a guy like that in my company – wild, built, but kind and loyal. I don’t know – but he’s in my top three,” Bucky admits. “Ant-Man . . . Yeah, I don’t know what’s going on there,” Bucky says, widening his eyes and shaking his head, as he works. Steve smiles down at him freely, now, loving his detailed evaluation. “The Black Widow . . . Beautiful. Deadly. Intense. But – well I know her, I make her outfits. I love her, she’s great – but do _not_ tell her I said this, but I don’t think she’s my favourite,”  
“No?” Steve inquires. Bucky shakes his head.  
“Nah. Let’s see . . . The Hulk. I mean, he seems like a nice enough guy, but not someone you’d wanna go on a date with, right? Anger management issues, like – yikes,” He says, shaking his head. “Now . . . Captain America. There’s a gentleman,” He says, his voice dropping lower, softer. Steve waits eagerly to hear what he has to say. 

“Seems . . . Nice. Not _boring_ nice. Seems like he’d be real good to ya. Old-fashioned, but not in a _republican_ sort of way. He always looks a little sad, though. Maybe I’d wanna help cheer him up. Show him a good time,” Bucky says, as he wraps the tape around Steve’s neck. 

Steve gazes down at him, and Bucky lifts his head to meet his gaze: there’s a glint of amusement in Bucky’s eye, and he licks his lips, and smiles up at Steve. Steve realises what's so funny, and a smile slowly spreads across his face.  
“When did you realise?” He murmurs.  
“Please,” Bucky mutters, “I’m a vet. I know Steve Rogers when I see him. I clocked you right off the bat, soldier,”  
“. . . You’d think it’d happen more often than it does,” Steve admits. Bucky snorts softly.  
“How does anyone ever ignore you?” Bucky asks. “I mean . . .” He lets go of the tape around Steve’s neck, and drops his hand down Steve’s chest, absent-mindedly brushing over his pecs; his abs. Steve has to suppress a shiver. He’s acutely aware of how close he and Bucky are – how little distance their lips would have to travel, before they’d be kissing, actually. 

“Not everyone sees what you do,” Steve says truthfully. Bucky hums, and grimaces slightly, at that thought. It’s sad, but true, he knows. 

“. . . So,” Bucky says, wrapping the tape around Steve’s left upper arm, and only slightly internally freaking out about how huge his biceps and triceps are, while Steve holds it in place.  
“So what?” Steve asks.  
“How about it? . . . I show you a good time,” Bucky offers. Steve tilts his head to one side, regarding Bucky with interest.  
“I bet you think you’re real smooth, huh, Buck,” Steve says, testing the water. “Bet you're a real hit with the ladies,”  
“Well you’re no lady. So I can only assume I’m a hit with men too,” Bucky says, winking again, and giving Steve’s biceps a quick squeeze. Steve rolls his eyes. But the more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea of a date with Bucky. 

“. . . Alright,” Steve agrees, giving in pretty willingly. “Where do you wanna go?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the awesome response to this, both here and on twitter!! (i'm @C0MMANDERROGERS). Honestly, I wasn't expecting this!! But I'm super glad. 
> 
> There's going to be two more chapters, for sure, at least. I've got a lot more written but I'm trying to keep updates frequent and chapters around about the same size, so I've limited this chapter to getting on for 7k words. 
> 
> Thanks again for your support, and enjoy!!

Bucky picks somewhere where he tells Steve he can wear jeans. If Steve's honest, clothing choices aren’t really at the forefront of his mind, when he meets with Bucky the next day at a place near the docks, but he’s grateful for the information anyway. Bucky can probably tell he has trouble deciding what to wear. Natasha’s called him a _typical man_ on more than one occasion. 

So, as instructed, he’s worn jeans. And boots. And a t-shirt. And a leather jacket. Really, it’s how he feels most comfortable – and he’d hate to be accused of false advertising. 

When he makes his way to the restaurant and sees Bucky waiting outside, however, he suddenly feels extremely underdressed. 

It’s not that Bucky’s clothes are expensive: in fact, Steve’s completely sure he made them himself, seeing as Bucky mentioned during their chat after the fitting that he made a lot of his own clothes. It came up after Steve complimented his dungaree shorts – a comment that just slipped out, after he was caught staring down at Bucky’s exposed legs. Bucky had said he’d made them himself, but didn’t have enough material for this pair to cover the shrapnel marks on his legs. Steve told him not to worry about that. They’ve both got their fair share of scars – and Bucky’s remind him of freckles, which he himself has, on his thighs and back, in particular. 

It’s just that . . . Well, these particular clothes are _really_ nice. But the way they hang on Bucky is nicer. He’s got a suit jacket, and tight trousers; a shirt, done up right to the top. He frowns down at his phone in his hand – and Steve can see, from this distance, that there’s something filling his left sleeve, tonight. Steve’s curious, but he remembers not to stare. 

Bucky leans up against the outside wall, alongside a couple of smokers, and as Steve gets closer he can see Bucky’s black stud earrings. He thinks, again, how Bucky mustn’t have the same problems with needles as he himself has - even after so long in hospital, around the time of his amputation. 

“Bucky,” He says, stepping up – Bucky looks up at him, half surprised. He must have been absorbed in whatever he was reading. Maybe it’s been a nervous wait – but not a long one. Steve’s right on time.  
“Steve – look at you,” He says, spreading his arms wide, and clapping Steve on the shoulder with his right hand. “Lookin’ sharp. Like the jacket,” 

Steve beams, and quickly replies, “Says you. You made these yourself, right?” Steve says, giving Bucky another look up and down.  
“Yup. Oh, and – don’t mind the prosthetic. I don’t get along with ‘em usually. Phantom limb. But – well, the jacket doesn’t sit right if I don’t wear it. The number of times I’ve caught my sleeve in a taxi door,” Bucky says, shaking his head, his expression one of disgruntled remembrance. 

Steve glances in through the window: it’s not a large place; it’s not a chain, or anything, either. It has the sort of quality to it that makes Steve think he’s probably going to end up eating a great burger tonight. If he’s not too nervous, that is. 

“You wanna go in, or stare a few more minutes?” Bucky teases. Steve rolls his eyes, and steps forward, holding the door for Bucky, who walks inside without breaking eye contact with Steve as he moves. Steve smiles despite himself. 

Steve’s the one to ask for the table: the waitress asks how she can help and, on autopilot, he puffs his chest out, fixes her with a serious look, and tells her,  
“Table for two, please,” In a way that’s intended as a challenge. 

It’s just that, with the way they’re dressed, and the time of day, and the way they’ve been looking at each other – it’s pretty obvious they’re on a date. Steve’s not had the best of luck with romance, and he’ll do anything to prevent further heartache: including shooting down any chance anyone has of ruining his date before it’s already began. 

But she just smiles, and says, “Of course,” As she looks between them. She looks genuinely happy. She doesn’t know she’s looking at Captain America. 

She leads them to a booth, and asks for their drink orders: without missing a beat, Bucky orders a vanilla milkshake. Steve asks for water. 

As the waitress walks away, Steve raises an eyebrow at Bucky.  
“Vanilla?” He asks. Bucky shrugs with one shoulder.  
“What? I like it. It’s the only vanilla thing about me,” He adds with a cheesy wink. Steve rolls his eyes again.  
“Good to know,” He responds sarcastically.  
“Anyway. Why’d you try to fight our waitress just now? – She wasn’t trying to stab you, Steve. She was just asking what you wanted,” Bucky points out. Steve shifts in his seat, and fiddles with his napkin. 

“It’s . . . It’s different, where I come from,” He mentions quietly. “You had to be prepared to walk away bloody, if you ever even let on that you were different to everyone else,”  
“. . . So what did you do?” Bucky asks, leaning forward. Steve smiles sadly.  
“So I did it anyway. All day, every day. I’ve been told I don’t know when to give up,” Steve admits.  
“I’ll say,” Bucky agrees. “It’s everything I’ve ever read about you – that you’re stubborn, and you’re brave. The history books seem to forget you’re bi, as well. Funny,” Bucky says, with a note of dark humour. Steve nods in agreement, because it’s true. 

“You read a lot about me?” Steve asks with a slow smile spreading over his face, as he processes Bucky’s words. Bucky grins back.  
“Sure I did. As a kid. Then – well, when you join the 107th, there’s always someone tellin’ you about how Steve Rogers fought with us,”  
“I saw your tattoo. On your shoulder, through your vest,” Steve mentions. Bucky nods.  
“. . . So you were having a good ol’ look, then,” Bucky teases.  
“Only because I was behind you!” Steve protests.  
“Sure, Steve,” Bucky says sarcastically.  
“Yeah, well – I think we’re even, seeing as the first time we met I caught you staring at my ass!” Steve tells him. 

The waitress, who’s just arrived with the drinks, suppresses a laugh. Steve realises she heard him, and blushes through a _thank you_ as she hands him his water. 

“. . . So is that why you asked me on a date, then?” Steve asks, once she’s gone, shifting the focus onto Bucky. He snorts.  
“No. I asked you because you – well, you gotta know you’re hot, right?” Bucky asks. Steve looks amused, but doesn’t comment. “And you seem nice. Like I said before. My kinda guy,”  
“Trans?” Steve asks carefully.  
“Compassionate,” Bucky says. Suddenly, Steve feels bad, again – this time for Bucky, who doesn’t usually get a sincere apology when people stare at his arm. Steve licks his lips.  
“Why did _you_ say yes?” Bucky asks. Steve puffs out his cheeks, trying to put it into words; he takes a sip of water.  
“. . . I don’t get a lot of fun. Or normality,” He explains.  
“What, and you think someone who makes clothes for superheroes is normal?”  
“Well – no,” Steve agrees, laughing slightly. “But maybe it’s on the way there,”  
“Ah, I see. So I’m just your stopgap until you find someone more normal?” Bucky asks, taking the straw of his milkshake into his mouth, and raising one eyebrow.  
“What – no! No, that’s not what I meant at all – just that it feels more normal, in - in as much as my life can!” Steve explains hurriedly, not wanting to give Bucky the wrong idea. 

But Bucky’s smirking, now, as he swallows his milkshake. He grins at Steve, and he knows, suddenly, that he’s just winding him up. 

“. . . Jerk,” Steve says, shaking his head, but he can’t repress his smile.  
“Lighten up, Stevie!” Bucky says, patting Steve’s arm where it rests on the table. “. . . Here. I’ll let you ask me somethin’. Whatever you want, and I gotta answer,” Bucky reasons, in recompense. 

Steve takes a deep breath, looking Bucky up and down – in truth, there are about a million things he wants to ask. But he decides to keep it light, for now. 

“Alright,” Steve says, the challenge back in his voice, as he sits up a little straighter. “What’s the hardest costume you’ve ever had to design?” 

Bucky laughs. “What, you don’t wanna know how I lost my arm?” He asks. Steve shrugs.  
“I’m interested in your work. I wanna know that what I’m getting is the real deal,” Steve explains, only half-serious.  
“Alright. I’ll tell ya,” Bucky says, and leans in slightly. “You ever heard of Atlantis?”  
“What?!” Steve says, his face screwing up in disbelief. Bucky smiles conspiratorially.  
“Yeah. Whole kingdom, undersea. Water people, you know?” Bucky says. Steve stares into his eyes incredulously, but doesn’t want to stop Bucky talking at all. “Usually they make their own clothes. But this one guy – a _prince_ , no less – he wants me to make his new suit. Says he wants it to be flexibe, lightweight – wants to be able to walk around in it, and swim as fast as he can,”  
“No way,” Steve says, shaking his head.  
“Yeah! Cross my heart, Stevie. The guy’s nuts. He wants this, and that – and hell, I don’t know what to do, I don’t have body suits like that, you know? Even when he brought me material from 10,000 leagues, I still didn’t know what the fuck to do,” Bucky explains. Steve raises an eyebrow, entertaining the notion for a minute.  
“. . . So what did you do, in the end?” 

Bucky takes a long sip from his milkshake: Steve watches him lick the foam from his lips, a little distracted from the story of the highly-strung Atlantian, for a moment. Until Bucky starts talking again. 

“Well,” Bucky says, with a smirk. “I use the material. I make him a speedo, because I'm desperate at this point. I give it to Rumlow for processing. I show it to the prince, and – he’s _delighted_ with it. Hands me some gems, or somethin’. I don’t know what they were. I told him we only accepted money, but he didn’t give me nothin’. Never saw him again – Pierce yelled at me somethin’ fierce, for that one. I think he sold the gems on, though . . . So yeah, probably the speedo for the fish man,” Bucky concludes, sitting back with a proud look on his face. 

Steve bursts out laughing. He can’t help it: it’s a stupid story, there’s no _way_ it’s true. 

“Bullshit, Bucky,” He laughs, feeling his face grow red from the ferocity of it, and having to take a sip of water.  
“Is not! I told ya, I’d only tell the truth,” Bucky says, with a charming smile that would probably have any girl weak at the knees. Steve tells himself he’s made of stronger stuff than the average person, but he starts to wonder, as he wipes at his eyes; Bucky takes another long sip of his milkshake. 

“Alright,” Steve accepts finally, though he’s going to have to find out the full story at one point. “Seriously. How did you get into all this, anyway?” He asks, watching as Bucky licks the foam from his milkshake away from his lips again – but more slowly, this time. He regards Steve thoughtfully for a moment, wondering what the tone dictates he should say now. 

“The truth?” Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow.  
“Nothin’ but,” Steve answers with a smile. Bucky sighs, and stirs the milkshake; Steve notices his chipped nail polish glinting in the light. He wonders who did it for him.  
“We didn’t have a lot of money, when we were younger. Mom used to work nights, and she’d be exhausted. Dad was in the army, we didn’t see him much, before he went MIA,” Bucky confesses.  
“I’m sorry,” Steve says softly, his fingers twitching where they rest on the table. He brings one hand up, leaning his chin on it as a displacement activity, as he says, “I know a little of what that's like. I didn’t get to see a lot of my dad before he was killed in the Great War. Uh – World War One,” Steve says, the words feeling wrong on his tongue. Bucky nods. 

“. . . Money was tight. But you could always get scraps from factories, thrift stores – old clothes. I have a younger sister, Rebecca – she’s moved out to Kansas, now, but back in those days, she was always falling over, always crying. Wrecking her best clothes, you know?”  
Steve smiles. “I definitely know. Used to darn my socks. Wore newspaper on my shoes,” Steve comments in sympathy.  
“Right – you got it. So it made sense for me to learn to sew. We had a really old hand-me-down machine. I always liked mechanics at school, when I could go. Bikes, and stuff. It wasn’t too different, fixing up the old machine,” Bucky explains. Steve's smile grows broader: he doesn’t know if Bucky still rides, but that’s another thing that they have in common, he guesses. 

Bucky’s story could easily be his, if he’d only been born around 80 years later. 

“I fixed her clothes. And I got into making her some – then making my own. The kids used to laugh, but they didn’t laugh so hard when I tried to knock their teeth out,” Bucky says, ducking his head slightly – as if he’s afraid of Steve’s judgement. But Steve laughs, his bright smile drawing Bucky's eye.  
“I was the same,” He points out. Bucky smirks.  
“I think you still are,” Bucky points out. Steve considers it for a moment, then shrugs, conceding the point.  
“. . . But how did you go from that, to making suits for superheroes?” Steve asks, extremely intrigued, now. Bucky’s come from nothing, to success, after all – defying all the odds. _The American Dream_. He’s never met anyone who exemplified it better than he’s been told he does, himself. 

“Painfully,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flitting down to his arm without his say-so. “I did a couple tours in Afghanistan. One IED later, I’m not _Sergeant Barnes_ anymore - at least, not by title. I don't think you ever really lose the mindset," Bucky reasons aloud. Steve nods, clearly empathising. Bucky shakes himself, and continues:  
"I’m kicking around, I’m hanging around the VA, going to group therapy, feeling useless as fuck, because I can’t work anymore . . . But then I go to classes. I learn a few more techniques, and they teach me how to work around my amputation. How to work _with_ it. I get my machine out of storage, and I adapt it. I learn to sew again,” Bucky explains, gesturing as he speaks. Steve could watch him explain the things he loves forever: it’s strangely intoxicating, the way he smiles, and he frowns, and he pouts and expresses himself enthusiastically. 

“. . . I see an advert in the paper. Discrete tailoring skills required. I figure it’s probably – you know. A sex thing,” He says, so matter of fact – Steve shifts in his seat, thinking what he could mean. He’s educated about the birds and the bees in the 21st century, sure, but some things are still completely alien to him. “So I check it out. And the interview is super fancy. The guy who interviews me is wearing a three-piece, and he’s sort of old – important-lookin'. It’s in an expensive area of town. I start thinkin’ I’m makin’ suits for the mob, here!” He says, lowering his voice slightly. Steve nods eagerly. “Anyway. I interview, and he’s askin’ me if I got any connections – family, friends. I say no, not in the city. I’m fresh back, one year outta surgery. He asks if I can work. I say yes. He calls me back that same day – I’ve got the job, but I still don’t know what I’m doing,” Bucky says, sitting back and shrugging. “The rest is history,”  
“Who was the guy?” Steve asks curiously.  
“Business owner. Mr Pierce. Apparently he owns a lot of different places in the business, but it’s all very hush-hush, ya know,”  
“Where does Rumlow fit in?” Steve asks curiously: he's barely interacted with him, but his gruff tone and invasive gaze set him on edge more than a little. Bucky sighs. 

“Aside from being a grade-A asshole – he manages the business. Orders materials in. Finishes up orders. Gets in my personal space. That kind of thing,” Bucky explains nonchalantly.  
“What?” Steve asks, eyebrows raised. “That’s illegal! That’s sexual harassment, and-”  
“Who am I gonna report it to? Rumlow?”  
“What about Pierce?” Steve asks, taken aback and frustrated. Bucky barks out a laugh.  
“Nah. He’s usually only around in the evening. And he’s not . . . The most approachable,” Bucky says, wincing a little. He doesn’t explain why. 

“. . . Jesus, Buck. You don’t deserve to be treated like that,” Steve says, shaking his head in anger. As a reflex, Bucky reaches out to him, taking one of his balled-up fists on the table. Steve looks down at his hand, cool from the milkshake glass, in surprise. He wasn’t counting on that. He looks up at Bucky, who makes eye contact with him. His words are sincere, as he says,  
“Steve. I fucking love my job. I’m not gonna let one asshole ruin it for me. Alright?” He says, squeezing Steve’s hand. Steve looks back down at their hands – and intertwines their fingers. 

A sly smile grows on Bucky’s face. 

“It’s not right,” Steve mutters down at their digits.  
“A lot of things aren’t. But I love designing, I love sewing, I love making people happy. Makes me happy – for such a long time I wasn’t happy - not with myself,” Bucky says, and Steve’s knowing look expresses understanding. “The army worked me into this person who was always useful. And then I wasn’t anymore,” Bucky recounts.  
“You don’t have to be useful, to matter,” Steve tells him. “You’re not for anything except what you want to do. What you believe in,” Bucky smiles.  
“It’s a nice thought, Steve. And you’re right. But – well, I still love feeling useful . . . Do you know what I mean?” He asks tentatively. Steve looks out of the window: the sun is setting, bathing everything in pink. Windows glint white and magenta, in the evening light. This place really is beautiful, in the evenings. He only ever used to see the differences, and the brand new dangers, when he cast his gaze around. 

Maybe it’s because he has company, now, that he sees the beauty again. 

“Yeah,” He says softly. “I remember. Felt pretty damn useless, most of my life. It was great to make a difference,”  
“Exactly,” Bucky says, finally withdrawing his hand, and taking up his straw again. Steve looks back at him, as he hollows out his cheeks. He takes a sip of his own drink, breaking eye contact, in case he lets his mind run riot.  
“Besides,” Bucky says. “If I’d dropped everything, I’d never have met you,” He says, raising an eyebrow.  
“That would’ve been a shame,” Steve comments honestly. Bucky reaches the end of his glass, and swipes up a little foam from around the rim. Steve steels himself, and watches him stick his finger in his mouth, cleaning it off, before smiling. 

“Tell me about it,” 

They continue to talk about Bucky’s time serving, for a little while after that: gradually, he manages to pry some details out of Steve, too. He’s noticed he has some trouble sharing. He doesn’t want to act like he’s Steve’s therapist or something, but he definitely wants to know more about Steve’s life. 

As the food comes and goes, Bucky gets Steve to open up about his time with the Howling Commandos: sharing a funny story about each of them that never quite made it into the history books. In particular, he talks about how Jacques was starting to go a little deaf, because of the explosions – and how he didn’t understand Steve’s ASL (a remnant from his time of being hard of hearing). He recounts a few French signs, which make Bucky laugh. Jacques really did have a dirty sense of humour, apparently. 

“What about that woman? Peggy Carter?” Bucky asks, taking a sip of his beer. He’s long since moved on from his milkshake. Steve nurses a beer, too, as he picks at the last of his fries.  
“. . . What about her?” Steve asks, feeling a little defensive all of a sudden.  
“She was really somethin’, huh?” Bucky asks, and he sounds sincere. Steve shifts a little, appraising him thoughtfully.  
“She still is,” Steve admits, with a small smile. “I see her every month. Down in DC,”  
“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, with a smile of his own. “You visited the Smithsonian recently?” 

Steve blushes, a little. He’s been caught out.  
“I have,” He confesses. “What about you?”  
“I wanted to go. I’m a fan of yours. But, well – guess I don’t need to go anymore, huh. I’ve got me the real thing,” Bucky says, with a wink. Steve snorts.  
“What kind of line was that?” Steve asks, with a raised eyebrow.  
“The kind that’s smooth as hell, actually, Rogers,” Bucky says. His cheeks are a little pinker, now, after his third beer. Steve smiles. 

“. . . She's something. You’re right. I love that woman,” Steve admits. Bucky shifts slightly. “But she’s sort of . . . My what-if. For the longest time, I couldn’t let go of her at all. Which isn’t healthy at all. I mean, she married, she had kids – I’m just some story she tells at Christmas. When she can remember me,” Steve explains, looking down into his lap. He’s not smiling anymore.  
“I’m sorry, Steve,” Bucky says, biting his lip. “I shouldn’t have brought her up,” 

Steve’s smile is bittersweet, as he looks up: this time, he’s the one to reach across, and pry Bucky’s cold fingers gently from around his beer. 

“It’s in the past. I miss her, but I’ve accepted it. And, well-” He looks down at Bucky’s fingers, course and calloused as they are, from weapons and needlework injuries alike, “-I think I’m ready again, now,” 

Bucky doesn’t have to ask what for. He doesn’t know if he can, given that his stomach is currently filled with butterflies he’d be much better placed to suppress when sober. He knows what it’s like not to want to get close to someone – hell, even some of the doctors’ and nurses’ touches at the hospital felt savage and icy, to him, and that was a clinical sort of touch. The thought of someone touching him because they wanted something from him filled him with dread, and self-loathing at his scarred and mangled body, for the longest time. 

But now . . . Well, Steve doesn’t want something _from_ him. As far as he can tell, Steve just wants _him_. 

He thinks he’s ready for that, too. 

“What are you grinning about?” Steve asks, his tone laced with soft amusement. Bucky shrugs his left shoulder, but his smile is irrepressible.  
“Just you, is all,” Bucky admits. He adds an extra tally to his _times I’ve made Steve blush_ count. “. . . I’ve gotta go powder my nose,” He says, and reluctantly lets go of Steve’s hand. His inner anxiety tells him not to leave his drink alone with someone he’s on a first date with – but then he reasons if you can’t trust _Captain America_ , then who can you fucking trust, in this world? 

When he gets back, Steve’s signed the bill – he’s left a hefty tip, seeing as the place is pretty much empty, by now, and it’s very close to closing time. Bucky sits down opposite, and notices something in Steve’s hands. 

“You overpaid,” He points out, looking down at whatever Steve’s holding, but still not able to decipher what it is.  
“These guys don’t get paid a lot. They deserve a big tip,” Steve reasons. _Of course_ , Bucky thinks.  
“What’ve you got there?” Bucky asks, pointing at Steve’s hands.  
“Nothin’,” Steve says, but his smirk tells a different story.  
“Steven Rogers, you big fuckin’ liar. What is it?” Bucky says, folding his arm across his chest, tugging his prosthesis against him so it looks like he's got his arms crossed.  
“I-” Steve begins, and stops. He sighs. “I like to draw,” He says, and Bucky spies the pen he used to sign the bill, by his hand. He raises his eyebrows. 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks curiously.  
“Yeah. I hope you don’t mind,” Steve says, as he finally shows Bucky what he drew. 

Bucky looks at the sketch, and he feels – well, a strange mix of emotions. He’s never been drawn, before. 

In the picture he sees himself: his top button done up, his shirt immaculate, and his tattoos on display. He’s gesturing, like he’s talking; he can see his asymmetrical haircut, and his made-up eyes. And he thinks that the man in the picture looks – well, he looks-

“You made me look beautiful,” Bucky breathes.  
“No,” Steve says. “ _I_ didn’t do anything. I just draw what I see,”  
“. . . You see something everyone else doesn’t, then,” Bucky informs him.  
“Well so do you. While we’ve been here, you haven’t once called me Captain America,” Steve points out. And it’s heart-breaking, to Bucky, that he’s been waiting for that – he just wants to be Steve Rogers. He just wants to be a kid from Brooklyn. 

Bucky bites his lip.  
“Can I keep this?” He asks tentatively. Steve pauses, then gestures for him to give it back. Fine, Bucky thinks. _It’s his, anyway._

But Steve takes up the pen, again: Bucky watches, heart pretty much dancing a foxtrot, as Steve signs the picture, and writes his phone number. He tries to play it cool when Steve hands it back to him, looking bashful.  
“Boy,” Bucky says, and gives a low whistle, “And I thought _I_ was smooth,” 

-

Steve is a gentleman. So when the end of the evening arrives, he walks Bucky home, stealing glances of cheeks glowing with alcohol and eyes shining bright beneath street lamps. He looks longer and longer every time. 

There’s a moment where Steve thinks about kissing Bucky. But the moment passes, when Steve turns down Bucky’s offer of coming up for coffee – Steve’s pretty sure he knows what that means, and he’s also pretty sure that Bucky’s too drunk for it. 

He wants to take it slow, right now. Because he thinks he really, _really_ likes Bucky. But the last person he liked like this . . . It didn’t work out, and for the longest time, he was afraid to try and find something like that again. But this feels something like hope. 

So the next time Steve sees Bucky, he’s coming into the shop again: it’s around a week later, because he was called off on an urgent mission. Hydra have been showing their faces on US soil, again, apparently. 

Steve’s let in when he presses the buzzer, and he makes his way upstairs: when he walks into the workroom, Bucky’s standing there with his arm across his body, partially crossing it with the remains of his left upper limb. He’s got one eyebrow raised, and he’s looking right at Steve. Steve smiles tentatively. 

“Hey, Buck,” He says. Bucky smirks.  
“Steve,” He replies. “Thought I might not see you again,”  
“What?” Steve says, honestly surprised.  
“Well, you weren’t exactly rushing back – you didn’t answer my texts,” Bucky points out, placing his hand on his hip. 

Steve winces. “Bad form?”  
“Super bad,” Bucky confirms.  
“. . . Any chance I make it up to you?” Steve braves.  
“Depends. You got a good excuse?” Bucky asks, and Steve knows he’s only half-joking.  
“. . . You heard of Hydra? The terrorist organisation? . . . They launched an attack on one of our bases. One of my friends was injured – badly. She was shot,”  
“Natasha?” Bucky asks, though it looks like he already knows the answer. His expression has changed from cheeky to grim, very quickly. The swiftness with which his face falls makes Steve wonder.  
“Yes – are you two close?” He ventures. Bucky nods a little.  
“She was a client. Now she's a friend,” He summarises. “How’s she doing?”  
“Better. She’s walking now,” Steve explains. “We think we’ve got most of Hydra. We’ll have to see. But I’ve been away in DC all week – I got called away urgently . . . You didn’t really think I’d let you go, did you?” Steve asks, with a small smile. 

Bucky ducks his head, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.  
“Well – you gotta admit. You don’t show up here for a week, you don’t text me back, or call at all. Looks bad,” He points out.  
“I’m so sorry. I won’t let you down again,” Steve says. Bucky looks up at him from beneath his browline, smile pulling at the corner of his lips again.  
“Promise?” He asks.  
“Promise,” Steve says sincerely.  
“Well then,” Bucky says, leaning on his elbow. “Did you bring me the pictures?”  
Steve’s eyes linger on Bucky’s for a second more, getting that same feeling like he could just get lost in them again – before he realises he’s been asked something. He opens up his satchel – he’s got means, now, but he’d rather shop in thrift stores for casual, non-formal, non-sports wear – and pulls out the plans for his old costume.  
“The old one is sort of, um – covered in radioactive waste. It’s being incinerated,” Steve confesses.  
“It’s more of a common problem than you’d think,” Bucky says with a shrug, as he takes the plans from Steve. He spreads them out on the table in front of them, looking down with a practised and analytical eye at them: the materials, the specs, the design. Steve’s all but mesmerised as he stares, taking a pencil from his back pocket, and marking down Steve’s measurements on the papers. Steve raises an eyebrow, wondering how he remembered them. He must have a very good memory - something Steve knows a lot about; knows is a curse, for people like him and Bucky, sometimes. 

He looks at a photograph of Steve, taken for his SHIELD file: in it, Steve stands holding his shield, legs a shoulder width apart, face serious, staring directly down the camera. His hair is neatly combed, and something tells Bucky he’s not long out of the ice. 

“. . . Okay,” Bucky says. There’s an oddly flat quality to his voice.  
“Okay?” Steve asks, a little concerned. Then he catches Bucky’s face – he looks as if he can smell something rotten. “What’s the matter?” He asks, after a pause. Bucky looks up at him.  
“Nothin’,” He denies. But Steve can easily tell it’s a lie.  
“Is it the costume?” Steve asks. “Can you make it?”  
“. . . Yeah, I can make it,” Bucky confirms yet again. Steve finally catches on.  
“But you don’t want to,” Steve says, a little crestfallen. He’d thought things were going well. _What’s the matter now? What did I do?_  
“It’s not you! I – you know what, it’s not my place to judge,” He says, gathering the papers into a small pile. Steve reaches out, and gently turns Bucky’s face towards his own. Bucky’s expression is surprised, but he doesn’t resist the movement at all.  
“I’m not married to the costume, y’know,” Steve reminds him. “You know better than I do what’s good,” He drops his hand from Bucky’s stubbly face.  
“. . . You wanna know? Honestly?” Bucky asks.  
“I’m always honest,” Steve says, with a smirking grin. Bucky believes him. 

Bucky lays out the designs again. 

“Whoever designed this didn’t know what the fuck they were doing. I doubt they were even a designer,” Bucky says. Steve snorts, amused at how forthright Bucky feels he can be, now.  
“You got that right. He’s just – a fan,” Steve says.  
“Uh-huh. I coulda guessed that from how goddamn tight those pants are. I mean, seriously? How did you not rip them yet?” Bucky asks. Steve shrugs.  
“It’s not like that – he just . . . I don’t know. He means well,” Steve excuses.  
“Well he’s shit. Like – for example. This cowl thing? Yeah, not a good move,” Bucky says, crossing it out on a picture where it's visible with a weak pencil line, so they can still see it. “Say you’re on your way into a burning building. Or – toxic gas is released. Something like that. You can’t take that shit off at a second’s notice. You need to be able to do it one-handed, because of the shield, at least. You need a helmet – you know, like you used to have. What happened to that outfit? It wasn’t that great, but it was better than this pile of crap. And it was made in the forties!” 

Steve can’t stop laughing, now: his shoulders are shaking, and he feels mean, but he can’t help it – Bucky’s words just tickle him, because he’s _right_. 

“Then there’s the colour. Jesus, why didn’t you just paint a target on yourself? – I mean, to go with that one you carry around with you. This blue – doesn’t even match your eyes. What’s up with that?” Bucky continues.  
“I don’t _think_ they spent as long as you gazing into my eyes, when they were designing this,” Steve teases. Bucky elbows him gently in the side.  
“Please. _You_ gaze into _my_ eyes. And I don’t believe that about your _superfan_ ,”  
“. . . He watched me when I was defrosting,” Steve says, cringing at the thought. Coulson is a nice guy, but honestly, the thought of _anyone_ being around him when he’s not conscious is not a nice thought. 

“I _hated_ being observed. They had student doctors in, sometimes. So many eyes, you know?” Bucky mutters in sympathy, his fingers twitching, drawing small patterns on the plans. He draws a small flower. Steve’s lips press together, as he adds, “Must be worse. Being famous,”  
“No one recognises me really. Not without this,” He says, pointing down at the costume; the shield. 

“Yeah, well. It’s probably a good thing. You wouldn’t wanna be recognised too easily – and, well, I’d be embarrassed to be out in that,” He nods at the plans, a look of distain on his face. 

That’s when Steve decides to throw caution to the wind. 

“Say,” He addresses Bucky with a smirk, “You’re trash-talking it an awful lot for someone who’s gotta make it,”  
“Hm,” Bucky grunts, flicking through the papers again.  
“. . . Think you could do better?” 

Bucky looks up at him again, with an expression of mild surprise: he sees the challenge in Steve’s eyes, daring and confident – he decides he likes that expression, on Steve. 

And he picks up the gauntlet. 

“I _know_ I can,” 

\- 

Of course, no matter how confident Bucky is in his own skills, it’s still difficult. But, considering the fact that he now has a _muse_ (or something very close to one), it makes his job just a little easier. 

When he considers the old costume, he finds the material too thin: he needs something a bit heavier, while still maintaining manoeuvrability. Steve mentioned before that he wasn’t too hot on leather being included in the design, or too many straps, and Bucky can relate. With his arm, it makes it hard to get out of anything too tight; fasten too many straps, or buckles. 

But Steve needs somewhere to attach his shield. That was an area he was _seriously_ lacking, in his old outfit. So, Bucky sketches out a figure-eight harness, which Steve can shrug on over his broad shoulders, for him to drop his shield onto without hassle, at short notice. He also sketches a helmet, reminiscent of Steve's one from the war, but updated for the 21st century.

The colour is something he thinks about a lot: he knows Steve goes on an ever-increasing number of stealth missions these days – so, it makes sense for his suit to be a lot darker than the current one. No brash reds, or bright blues – no. He needs something the colour of midnight, and the sea. Something that intimidates the enemy, in a way Steve isn’t aware he can do just with the sheer force of his presence, his gravity and boldness. Something that still says _patriotism_. 

So he gets to sketching out Steve’s appearance from the front: the triangular shape of his chest, shoulders so broad and waist so small; hips perhaps a little wider, and thighs thick in a way that exudes power. He could probably jump miles, if he had a mind to. Bucky licks his lips, feeling his hand sweat a little, and he draws out the muscle definition. 

He experiments with a few colour schemes: he tries black, but decides that if Steve doesn’t like his current temporary costume, he won’t like that, either. It’s a little depressing, and dark. Steve’s still a beacon of hope, however faded it might be for some. 

He tries a principally red outfit, but then finds that it distracts him from his overall goal: too bright, and it stands out too much; makes Steve a target. Too dark, and it either looks black, or strangely enough, too similar to blood. 

Then he tries blue: shading in the chest, abdomen, pelvis, legs. A dark blue that exudes _stealth_ , while still being very much reminiscent of the shade found in the American flag. 

He finds that, as long as there isn’t a _large_ volume of red (slightly lighter than the blue), then it doesn’t remind him too much of blood: he adds panels on Steve’s flanks comprised of the dark red, hardly noticeable, but visible in the light. 

He considers Steve’s first costume, and his second, and his most recent suit – and realises he’s missing stripes from the front. So, not wanting to overwrite is work with the colour scheme, he simply adds them in with sewing detail; stripes slightly darker than the material he’s using can be added, to give the impression of the flag. _Perfect_. 

Then, the most important part: he needs to make sure there’s a star on Steve’s chest. But, considering how toned-down the suit is, he can’t well slap a white star on the centre of Steve’s chest, and call it a job well done. He experiments with stripes that are horizontal, and vertical; black stars, red stars, blue stars. But he finds that silver works best. And stripes that cut across, at an angle, terminating around the sides of Steve’s shoulders. He adds swatches of smooth material to the design, to make sure he remembers which to use, when the time comes. He’d hate to forget, and not fully realise his dream for Steve. 

Because he wants to _really_ impress Steve. Especially when thinking about Steve’s physique – his skin, and the cut of his muscles, and his hair; his bright blue eyes, and how his face erupts into a smile, or a blush – has him hot under his collar. 

Seeing as the outfit is lacking colour vibrancy, he needs to make it stand out through the correct cut: it’s a cheap trick to make someone stand out by choosing bright colours. If he can make Steve look great – hot as hell, while accommodating his chest scars, and his physique, and accounting for his need to be able to move and fight in any environment – he’ll be onto a winner. And Steve might be happy. 

He started drawing at around 10 am. It’s now 6 pm, and he has to leave the shop: he’s just finished a conclusive draft of his design. With a break for lunch, and nothing else – it’s been a slow day, at the store, usefully – he thinks he’s managed to create something that would look good on Steve. But, then again, Steve would look good in a potato sack. There’s just something about the way he looks – and the way he talks, and smiles, and what he says – that drives Bucky wild; has him checking his phone every couple of minutes, though he knows Steve’s not really the texting type. 

But when Bucky steps out of the store, leaving the place to Pierce, who usually conducts his business in the office in private from 6 pm onwards, he’s pleasantly surprised to find that he does have a text. 

_I hope you’ve had a good day. I can’t wait to see you again. - Steve_

Bucky smirks, feeling somewhat proud – he’s managed to get Steve texting – and he’s managed to do something to make Steve think about him, and be eager to see him again. He almost can’t believe it.  
_I bet you can’t_ , Bucky texts back. _You should see what I drew up for you today._

Steve’s text back asks, _oh yeah? Something good?_

Bucky simply texts back four fire emojis. Across the city, Steve laughs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working on this!! I've got more written, I've got a huge plan, it's all good, don't worry about it at all. it'll be weekly updates now, and I anticipate 2-3 more chapters, now!! 
> 
> I hope you like this. It's sort of vaguely nsfw, I guess. So look out for that, and thanks for your support!!

One week later, and Bucky has finished Steve’s costume: if it’d been a simple reproduction of an old costume, then it would have been quicker, but a whole new design is something he really has to concentrate on. He knows other tailors could have finished more swiftly, but – well, other tailors aren’t him. They might have two hands, but they don’t have his eye; his flair for design. They’d never be able to make a design for Steve with such passion behind it – because Steve doesn’t mean to them what he means to Bucky, now. 

And that’s why he’s standing, now, waiting to be called into Pierce’s office to have the costume signed off as a priority, after working ceaselessly on it. 

After a few moments of semi-nervous waiting – Pierce is kind of intimidating, after all – he’s called inside with a swift, “Enter,” 

Clutching the folded costume in his hand, he uses his forearm to wipe at his forehead, moving his hair from his face, before he steps through the door. He sees Pierce writing something down, sitting at his desk, and stops beside the chairs on the other side of the desk. Pierce finishes what he’s writing, after a moment, before looking up at him with a calculating gaze. He doesn’t invite Bucky to sit down. 

“Yes?” He asks brusquely, his judgemental stare making Bucky cringe, especially when it falls on is left arm, like usual.  
“. . . I’ve finished my latest project, I was hoping you could sign off on it,” Bucky requests quietly. 

Pierce smiles coldly.  
“So this is the one you’ve been spending all of your company time on,” Pierce says. Bucky opens his mouth to protest, but he continues, “You know Rumlow has had to serve customers, due to you being distracted this past week, Barnes. The man is effective but customer service is what we have you for. You seem to appease them, somehow,” Pierce says, looking Bucky up and down gradually as he says it. Bucky swallows.  
“I’m sorry, sir. He’s a new customer. They always take more time,” Bucky explains.  
“I’m aware of that. What I’m concerned about in particular, though, is you staying later than I allow. You know I use this place in the evenings for company business. You are not permitted to be here after five thirty. I hope now I’ve reminded you of that, you can learn to abide by the rules again, or you will be reprimanded. Understood?” 

Bucky nods stiffly. 

“Understood?” Pierce asks again, and Bucky’s skin crawls. He wants an answer.  
“Yes sir,”  
“Good. Now who’s this costume for?”  
“Captain America, sir,” Bucky says, not wanting to be penalised for being informal, on top of his other supposed infractions. He doesn’t see, really, how being dedicated to his work is such a bad thing. Most jobs would kill for their employees to work off the clock, without being paid extra, to complete their projects quicker. But whatever happens here after dark, Pierce doesn’t want him seeing, for some reason. He probably shouldn’t pry. But he _is_ curious. 

“. . . Ah, yes. A true hero,” Pierce says, his eyes shining, as he smirks. That look doesn’t sit well with Bucky. “A real patriot. Tell me, how have you been getting along with the Captain, Barnes?” He asks.  
“. . . Fine. Just fine, thank you,” Bucky tells him. He shouldn’t have to share anything more with him.  
“It’s unprofessional for things to be any better than fine, isn’t it?” He asks, a note of warning in his voice.  
“. . . I don’t understand, sir,” Bucky lies, not knowing what else to say. He doesn’t want to be sacked, and he _doesn’t_ want to stop seeing Steve. Not just to please Pierce, of all people. He doesn’t control him. 

Pierce sits back in his chair, elbows resting on the armrests, folding his fingers together with a look of amusement. But he doesn’t make a further comment. He beckons for Bucky to lay the suit down on his desk.  
“I’ll have Rumlow process this tomorrow. Then you can give it to your Captain. Understood?” Pierce asks, his voice finally dismissive, like he wants the conversation to be over. Bucky’s more than a little relieved, by that. He hates Pierce's scrutiny.  
“Yes sir,” Bucky answers.  
“Good. I was beginning to think you were a bit slow,” Pierce jibes. “Shut the door behind you,” He adds, without commenting on the quality of the costume, or asking any further questions. Bucky’s just glad to high-tail it out of there. 

Pierce gives him the creeps. But he won’t diminish his achievement, regarding what he’s designed and put together for Steve, over the last couple of weeks. 

He just hopes Steve shares his sense of pride. 

-

The next morning, Bucky’s back to working on a suit for an airforce pilot who can pack a serious punch – yet _another_ strong, blonde captain – when Rumlow slams down Steve’s costume, wrapped up in cellophane, down on the desk beside him. He almost sews over his damn finger. 

“Fuck!” He hisses, drawing his hand away from the machinery. Rumlow laughs; he glares up at him.  
“Got this all ready for your boy-toy. Well, I _say_ boy-”  
“Thanks,” Bucky says, cutting him off before he can finish whatever nastiness was about to come out of his mouth.  
“You don’t seem very grateful. I got that done on the rush, for you,” Rumlow says, folding his arms. “Maybe now you can concentrate on other stuff and not be so goddamn thirsty,”  
“How selfless of you,” Bucky grits out, continuing with his sewing. “I’ll have him in later,”  
“I bet you will,” Rumlow says, raising an eyebrow. 

Bucky sighs, and looks up at him, stopping sewing. 

“You got a problem?” He asks, narrowing his eyes.  
“You. Your work ethic. Pierce ain’t happy with you, and neither am I. Walking around the place in short shorts and flirting on the job. You just can’t control yourself, can you?” Rumlow asks.  
“I don’t have to justify my clothes to you. This place wouldn’t even run without me,” Bucky points out, turning back to his work, feeling self-assured. 

He doesn’t expect Rumlow to grip his shoulder painfully tight, drawing his alarmed gaze immediately.  
“We could replace you, Barnes. You’re trash, got it? There’s about a thousand guys who would take your place. Hell, maybe we’d even get a woman in. At least she’d look good in outfits like yours. Maye she’d understand when I tried to knock some respect into her, huh?” Rumlow says, his soft murmuring so close to Bucky's face somehow more intimidating than his usual threatening growl. 

Seeing red, Bucky strikes out with his fist, hitting Rumlow straight in the nose: Rumlow retaliates by shoving Bucky hard, causing him to fall off his stool, and topple to the ground. He jars his left arm as he lands on his back, hitting his head. Rumlow straightens; he stares down at Bucky, as he heaves for breath on the floor, not letting himself look afraid. Rumlow wipes a drip of blood from his nose, as he stares down at Bucky. 

“Pathetic, He says with a smirk, as he turns away, leaving Bucky to pick himself up from the floor. 

Bucky quickly exits to the bathroom. He takes a few minutes to stop shaking. No one gets to touch him like that, or hurt him. Never again. Rumlow’s never actually gone _that_ far, before. But today – god, today he’s in a foul mood. Bucky can still smell the cigarettes, as he clings to the bathroom sink, and looks up at his reflection in the mirror. He looks very pale. He reaches up and rubs his head where he struck it on the floor. He can still feel Rumlow's grip on his sensitive shoulder. 

And he wants someone to talk to. 

He takes his phone from his dungarees pocket – _he wears them because he likes them, he thought he looked good, it gets hot in the workroom so the shorts are good, and he needs a lot more pockets than the average person_ – and he texts Steve. 

_Your costume is ready._

Steve’s reply comes a few minutes later: _I can’t come in today, Buck. I’m stuck in meetings all day. What about tomorrow? I’m free all day._

Bucky bites his lip, and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to wait that long. Not after what just happened. He doesn’t want to be alone all day and tonight. 

So, though he cringes at his own desperation, he texts back, _tonight?_

Steve’s reply comes almost instantly: _at the shop?_

Bucky realises that’s not a possibility – not with Pierce’s warnings to him, about staying after hours. 

_Not possible. You can come to my place, if you want?_

He waits a moment or two, nervous as hell: Steve must be considering it. He didn’t seem too keen to come up to his apartment, after their date. Bucky gets the impression he wants to take things slow, which is fine – that’s just what Steve’s like, maybe – but this isn’t the same. Bucky just wants to see him. And he wants to show him what he’s designed, for him. It’s another minute more, before he gets his reply, brightening his day significantly. 

_I’d love to._

-

Steve waits apprehensively at Bucky’s front door, when he arrives at around eight o’clock: he would have been earlier, but he wanted to check up on Natasha briefly on the way, and see if she needed anything. She’s pretty much fine, now – just resting at home, on mandatory medical leave – but Steve can never be too sure. Nevertheless, he hopes Bucky doesn’t mind. It would be a shame if he fucked this up. 

He’s not nervous to see Bucky again – well, he _is_ , but he’d class the feeling in his stomach as butterflies, rather than sick dread, weighing him down. He’s excited and concerned, at the prospect of seeing his new costume: he’s seen Bucky’s work before, and he’s found it beautiful and well-made, but what if he’s disappointed? He has every faith in Bucky, but perhaps his own standards are too high, for him. Okay, his old standards were pretty low, given his old costume (and all the flaws Bucky pointed out), but he’s still afraid that his defensive nature and suspicious disposition nowadays will ruin this for him. 

When Bucky answers the door, he’s a sight to behold – he always is, but today is somehow different. Bucky’s still made up, from work – but his hair is a little flyaway, and he’s got more casual clothes on - a vest and tight black jeans. Steve notices some thick, fluffy socks on his feet, and smiles. He can smell scented candles – flowers, definitely – and he can see them lighting Bucky’s bedroom, which is clearly visible through his living-room-come-kitchen. 

“Steve,” He greets, and steps forward for a hug. Steve’s eyebrows raise in surprise, as Bucky wraps his arm around him – but he hugs back as quickly as possible, drawing him close. He feels him take a deep breath; let it out, shuddering somewhat.  
“You smell good,” He says. A bubble of surprised laughter escapes Steve.  
“Says you!” Steve says.  
“I like candles,” Bucky says with a shrug, as he pulls away. He looks a little shaken, as he examines Steve. Steve doesn’t know why. He follows his lead and, upon closer inspection, he doesn’t like what he sees. 

“You’re bruised,” Steve says, regarding Bucky’s left arm. Beneath a big blue star and the words of a Robert Frost poem, a dark bruise has blossomed, just on the end of the limb, as if it’s been hit. Bucky glances down at it, lifting the short limb up to look at.  
“Yeah, I – I fell off my stool. Stupid,” He mutters. Steve frowns.  
“You don’t seem the kinda guy to fall easy,” Steve says. Bucky chuckles, fixing Steve with a look.  
“You sure about that?” He asks. Steve looks up and into his eyes – his grin is schmaltzy, to say the least. He rolls his eyes.  
“You falling for me, then?” He asks. Bucky maintains eye contact, and licks his lips, but doesn’t say anything. He pushes the door shut behind Steve, and beckons him over to the island in the middle of the part of the room portioned off to be the kitchen. 

“There’s plenty of time to talk about that later – right now, I’ve gotta see your ass in this costume,” Bucky says, laying his hand down gently on a mass of dark blue.  
“This is it?” Steve says reverently, reaching out – he looks at Bucky’s face, and he nods slightly with an amused smile, letting Steve know that it’s okay to touch it. It’s his, after all. Designed specifically for him.  
“This is it,” Bucky confirms. So Steve picks it up, running his eyes over it: the dark hue, the – _silver_ stars and stripes. He takes a deep breath, and bites his lip.  
“You alright?” Bucky asks. Steve nods.  
“It’s . . . It’s so different,” 

Bucky frowns a little. “Too different?” He asks. Steve shrugs.  
“I – just think I’m not used to it. This is totally new for me,” Steve breathes, his fingers brushing over the strong fabric. He looks up at Bucky’s concerned face, and is quick to reassure him, “Not that I’m averse to new. I can deal with new. And it does look good. Much better. Much stealthier,” Steve tells him. Bucky smiles.  
“Alright. You might feel differently when you try it on, so – if you want, you can – my bathroom’s through my bedroom-”  
“No,” Steve decides, shaking his head. “I’ll just change here, if that’s okay,” 

Bucky nods, going to turn away, as Steve reaches for the button on his shirt. But he startles, slightly, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. Steve gently encourages him to turn around. 

“. . . I don’t mind,” Steve says. “You can look. If it’ll help,”  
“And what if it doesn’t? . . . What if I just wanna watch?” Bucky murmurs with a smirk, looking down at Steve’s chest; dragging his gaze up, lingering on his lips, before settling back on his eyes. Steve smiles with satisfaction.  
“Well . . . That’s alright, too,” Steve mentions. 

Bucky watches Steve’s fingers work his buttons open, shedding his shirt; his hands go for his belt, next, and he undoes the buckle perhaps a little slower than he usually would, as Bucky watches.  
“Had you pegged for shy, Rogers,” Bucky mentions quietly, as he tries not to watch too obviously. He doesn’t want Steve to know just how bad he’s got it, for him – from getting him to come over tonight for comfort, to finding him about twice as attractive as he’s ever found anyone, if not more. 

Steve laughs softly, as he undoes his button, and fly.  
“Only in public. And - only when I’m not sure how people will react. But, well – now I know you like what you see . . .”  
“How’d you know that?” Bucky asks, raising one eyebrow, and putting his hand on his hip.  
“The way you stared – and the winking. And the fact you asked me out on the spot. Real smooth. Real subtle,” Steve teases, as he slips his shoes off, and his trousers.  
“Alright, alright,” Bucky says, and he’s helpless to do anything but smile, when Steve takes up the costume again, staring at it in awe. Bucky shifts on his feet, as Steve evaluates it yet again, taking in the fine stitching, and the quality of the material used. 

“You start with putting your legs in,” Bucky tells him, half-joking. It’s not always easy to tell _how_ superheroes want to get into their suits. But when Steve rolls his eyes, and unfastens the suit down one side, it’s obvious to Bucky that he understands. 

The costume comes in many parts: as well as the shield harness, boots, gloves, helmet and and main suit, which Steve fastens up along one side and the back, as well as in the neck region for fit, there’s a panel that fastens over his stomach. Currently, there’s only a meshwork of translucent material: but when Bucky hands him the second part, and he secures it in place with a couple of discrete straps, he finds that his midriff is protected by a thick, strong material to rival that covering his chest. It’s robust, but not heavy – not oppressive. 

Steve turns his torso this way and that, listening to the very quiet rustle of the material, and staring down at his chest; feeling how the leg parts fit, not too tight on anywhere he wouldn’t want them to be. He takes a step away from Bucky, and bends his legs, checking his range of movement. Bucky smirks at his little routine, but his amusement is overwritten by the familiar thrill of seeing the costume he designed come to life. Sure, when he finishes these outfits, he feels good – but they don’t truly come off the page, and come _alive_ , until someone wears them; falls in love with them. He knows he’s a slave to his own need for approval – but he doesn’t care, in the slightest. 

Because Steve is certainly giving it to him. As he catches his reflection in Bucky’s full-length mirror, situated by the door for his daily affirmations, his expression changes from one of cautious happiness, to one of full-blown awe; his jaw slack. 

“I-” He stutters. Bucky’s eyebrows raise, toes curling in anticipation, as Steve struggles for words.  
“Yeah?” He asks. Somehow, he has lot more adrenaline than he usually does when he sees a superhero in one of his suits, for the first time – and it’s usually a big thrill. He adds, “There’s a helmet, too – and shoes, and gloves – fingerless, for grip. Leather for durability. Hope you don’t mind that,” 

Steve catches a glimpse of his legs – thick, but not _feminine_ – and his crotch, which doesn’t look _empty_ without something down his pants. It doesn’t look as if there’s _nothing there_. He told Bucky he didn’t wear a packer, in his suit, where he could help it, for convenience – and Bucky followed through, remembering that, and tailoring the suit to have its own way of defending Steve from wandering eyes and whispered, scandalised words. 

Steve turns to him; glances back at the mirror, looking at his back; eyes catching on the shield harness, and down to his ass, and his bare feet. 

“I – I want to kiss you, right now,” Steve admits, laughing a little breathlessly.  
“Then why don’t you?” Bucky asks, his smile growing wider. Steve stares into his eyes, a little surprised.  
“. . . Can I?” He asks. Bucky rolls his eyes.  
“You better,” Bucky says. So Steve surges forward, takes Bucky’s smirking, stubbly face in his hands, and kisses him. 

It’s more tender than most of the kisses Bucky’s had in his life. When he was younger, he got into fights with boys in the playground, and was kissed harshly by them in cubicles where no one was around to call him queer except for them. When he was a little older, it was sloppy drunken kisses in clubs he was a little young for, when he was sure Rebecca was tucked up in bed, and his parents wouldn’t ask him where he was going. When he was in the army, it was stolen glances, and frantic stolen embraces, bruised knees and swollen lips – perhaps he would have taken longer, DADT be damned, if he’d known it was his last time before the accident. 

Even with women, kisses were never as soft as this: the same as any other partner, he always felt like they _wanted_ something. Every partner always wanted something _from_ him. But Steve wants to give something back. That’s why he’s soothing Bucky’s cheeks with his gentle thumbs, softly pressing his lips against Bucky’s. 

Tentatively, Bucky opens his mouth, breathing in the scent of Steve: simple, and fresh, and old-fashioned but not _stale_. Kind of reminds him of home – waiting for laundry, sitting on top of a machine at a laundrette, pretending to pull a quarter from behind Rebecca’s ear. Happy times: when good was good, and bad was bad, and love was love, no matter who you were or what you looked like. 

His breath hitches, as he remembers he doesn’t have an arm. He could have sworn he was reaching for Steve’s ass. He breathes through it; Steve pulls back a little.  
“Are you alright?” He murmurs. Bucky nods insistently.  
“Phantom limb. Forget it – _make me_ forget it,” He requests. And Steve’s happy to oblige. 

He continues to tilt Bucky’s jaw upwards with his left hand, dropping his right down over Bucky’s chest; squeezing slightly over Bucky’s left pec. His breath hitches again, but certainly not in a bad way.  
“Sensitive there?” Steve mutters into his mouth, his lips still parted for Steve. Bucky just nods, as Steve’s palm massages him. Not breaking from the kiss, Steve reaches down for the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt, watching Bucky’s face carefully for a reaction. He looks perhaps a little hesitant, but doesn’t stop Steve at all. If he even looked as if he were shaking his head, Steve would stop immediately. 

But he pulls Bucky’s t-shirt from over his head, and goes back to kissing him. 

His left hand travels to the back of Bucky’s head, fingers threading in his hair, as Bucky’s hand finds his ass, and grabs a handful, giving a good squeeze that makes Steve make a noise that makes Bucky laugh – a sort of surprised groan. But Bucky’s not laughing so hard, when Steve’s right hand trails down over ridges and dips in his skin, making his breath come short, and the hairs on the back of his neck raise in frisson. 

Steve hasn’t looked, yet. But he can feel the scars all over the left side of Bucky’s chest: lines, radiating from where his arm would have been, before. Steve imagines them, tracing them in his mind’s eye, as he licks into Bucky’s mouth, wanting to let him know that _it’s okay, I don’t mind at all, I still want you, Buck-_

Eventually, he does look, though: he presses his forehead to Bucky’s, their breathing in time now, and looks down. The scars, a mix of red, and white, and pink, are as he imagined: they remind him of his own, really. His are perhaps a little browner, but then again, Bucky’s paler than he is. 

“They remind me of fireworks,” Steve says honestly, with a smile. Bucky snorts softly, closing his eyes.  
“Don’t think anyone’s compared me to the fourth of July before, Stevie. I don’t know whether to be offended or not,” He considers aloud. 

Steve’s hands slip down to his belt, which is velcro for ease of fastening: his fingers carefully slip inside his waistband, clinging on lightly, but that doesn’t matter because Bucky’s so acutely aware of their presence that it feels like his skin is on fire, as he tries to calm his breathing. One of Steve’s hands moves down to cup his crotch, which near enough makes him jump, squeezing Steve’s ass a little tighter, bringing him a little closer for better friction. 

“The fourth of July is my birthday,” Steve mentions honestly, as Bucky looks up and into his eyes, asking a silent question he near enough knows the answer to already.  
“Well, god fuckin’ bless America,” Bucky says, the sarcasm of the statement lost in the reverence he has for every bit of Steve – Steve’s eyes, Steve’s face, Steve’s hands, God-

Steve stays the night. 

-

“This is when I’d have a cigarette,” 

Steve smiles, and turns his head down slightly, looking at where Bucky is resting his head on his chest. He’s lying sideways, perpendicular to Steve, with his arm crossed over Steve’s torso. He keeps pressing lazy kisses to Steve’s stomach; to his abs, and the soft skin and jutting bones of his Apollo’s belt. He rests his forehead against the expanse of Steve’s skin. Steve brings up a hand and plays with his hair, fingertips brushing against the short, shaved hairs, and wrapping his messy long hair around his fingers. Bucky groans, even with his mouth pressed shut. He gives a deep sigh. 

“I used to smoke, too,” 

Bucky lifts his head, turning it towards Steve, and resting his cheek against Steve’s skin. He raises one eyebrow and Steve thinks that, even with make-up smudged by Steve’s hands, Steve’s _thighs_ , he looks beautiful. Steve’s still not come down from the high of last night – well, not just the night, either. He barely got any sleep last night, and though it’s early morning, now, it hasn’t been a quiet one. At least, not until now. 

“You?” Bucky asks, with mild amusement. Steve brings up the hand that isn’t playing with Bucky’s hair, causing him to basically purr out his words, and places it behind his own head.  
“Me,” Steve says, with a smile. “I had – well, they don’t have them anymore. We had asthma cigarettes,” 

Bucky laughs, the sound low and in itself tired-sounding – Bucky looks unbelievably satisfied, right now, to be in Steve’s arms, draped over Steve’s body. Steve’s never seen him so still, so calm; sated and looking boneless. He himself doesn’t think he’s been this happy, that he can remember. There were a few times, during the war – but it was still a war. 

And this . . . This is peacetime, with all the benefits of peacetime. 

“Asthma cigarettes? – Jesus, Steve. How did you not realise they were a terrible idea?”  
“I was just a kid. A teenager. Everyone smoked, and it used to irritate my lungs somethin’ rotten. But these things, well – they weren’t like normal cigarettes, they were more like, well . . .” He pauses, and smiles bashfully. “They were kinda hallucinogenic. Made me sick as a dog, back then,”  
“Really? Steve Rogers got high as a kite, on asthma meds,” Bucky says with an amused grin.  
“It wasn’t like that!” Steve laughs.  
Bucky reaches up with his arm, and takes Steve’s cheek in his palm. Steve leans into his touch, as his thumb brushes against Steve’s cheekbone. 

“I know,” He says. “I’m just teasin’ you,”  
“Thought we were done with teasing – seeing as you kept me up all night long,” Steve points out. The flirting and the lingering glances are hardly anything, compared to what he and Bucky have done.  
“ _I_ didn’t keep _you_ up – honestly, Stevie, I’ve never met anyone more responsive than you, you’re like a _machine_ , you just keep goin’! I’m gonna be sore for days, jesus,” Bucky says, his voice half-way amused, half-way genuinely awed. 

“Alright – I’m sorry, I’ll try not to be so goddamn needy next time,” Steve says, blushing high in his cheeks. But his smile hasn’t slipped off his face at all.  
“No need to apologise,” Bucky says, fingers slipping down Steve’s face; catching briefly on his lips, as he takes a gentle hold of Steve’s chin. “. . . You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,”  
“Because I’m a super soldier?” Steve asks. He doesn’t add, _with a refractory period of zero and the ability to go as many times as I like in one night._  
“Because you-” Bucky swallows involuntarily; licks his lips, as he brings his hand to the back of Steve’s neck. “Because you’re kind. Because you give a shit. I've wanted to care for a lot of people, but I feel like you wanna care about me, back. Which is weird,” He says, snorting gently.  
“Too weird?” Steve asks, cringing.  
“No!” Bucky says. “No. It’s just . . . I push people away easy, when it comes to making a connection. Or even letting them close – even doctors, therapists . . .” Bucky sighs, his eyes drifting down to Steve’s scars. “. . . But it’s something I’ve been looking for. You’re something I’ve been looking for, Steve,” 

Steve looks sad, when Bucky looks back up and into his eyes: his expression portrays the way his heart is breaking, for Bucky. So he changes the topic. 

“. . . I’m not gonna be done with the teasing at all, you know,” Bucky says, his hand slipping down to Steve’s chest, fingers teasing at Steve’s nipple; at his scar, stroking along with just enough pressure – which he knows both from his own scars, and from his experience with Steve, last night – until Steve tenses up a little, squirming and biting his lip.  
“Mm?” Steve asks, not able to speak too easily.  
“Yeah – you’re just too handsome when I’ve got you all hot under the collar, jerkin’ around cause you can’t sit still,” Bucky tells him, a sly expression on his face. Steve pulls a little tighter on his hair unintentionally, as a response to the teasing.  
“Unless you wanna go for another round, Buck . . .” He grits out, trailing off because he can’t bring himself to tell Bucky to stop what he’s doing. He usually regrets his sensitivity, but today – and last night – it’s worked in his favour, for sure. Plus, it’s been a long time. A _very_ long time: both since someone else was comfortable with him, and since he felt ready to share himself, like this. Bucky seems to get that. He wasn’t keen on touching Steve with his left arm, last night – not until Steve took it in his arms, and kissed the pattern of a poem, and a star, and a wing insignia on the back. Not until Steve told him that he was _so fucking beautiful_ , all over. 

“Well what if I do?” Bucky asks cheekily, using his left arm to prop himself up slightly, before straightening up onto his knees. He turns himself so he’s facing Steve, chest pressed to his chest, settling between Steve’s legs. It’s a familiar position, now. 

Bucky leans forward slightly, and Steve surges up to meet him, kissing him hard. Bucky slows the pace down, nowhere near as frantic as Steve – but then again, he’s the one doing the teasing, not the one writhing around with every gentle touch; every brush of fingertips, and scrape of nails. He pulls away slowly, with a small, wet noise. 

“. . . Is it difficult? . . . Being a superhero, and trans?” Bucky asks. Steve blinks, a little surprised at the question. “Because no one knows?”  
“I-” He pauses, for a second. “I wouldn’t know any other way to be a superhero,” He points out. Bucky shakes his head.  
“Forget it – I just . . . I promise I won’t tell anyone, okay?” He reassures Steve, suddenly very sincere. “This is just for us. Just for you, and for me, because you’re letting me,”  
“I’m not _letting_ you. I _want_ you to,” Steve corrects him. “. . . And you better do it soon. You have to be at work in an hour, don’t you?” Steve asks, a smile spreading across his face, again. 

Bucky grins, again, at the trust and the _wanting_ implicit in the statement. He can’t believe that same Steve who walked in and out of the workroom a couple of weeks ago, is the same one baring all underneath him, in every possible context. But it’s hard to find a connection, in this world, for Bucky – and probably more, for Steve. So finding each other felt a little like the floodgates opening, as soon as they grew to know each other enough to know that this was _right_. 

“Awww, Stevie. Always so sensible,” Bucky says, shifting downwards slightly; he takes Steve’s left calf in his hand, stroking it with his thumb, and pulling his leg a little wider. Steve’s right leg follows suit eagerly. “I’m a little spent, right now,” He mentions, looking down between his legs with a look of pantomime disappointment. “. . . But I’m not gonna let that stop me, as you know by now,” Bucky says with a wink, dropping his head to place a kiss on the inside of Steve’s thigh, spread wide by his hand, which has slipped under Steve’s knee, now. 

Steve’s hand, where it rests behind his head, pulls on his own hair; his other hand comes up to Bucky’s head again, as he moves his kisses up the inside of Steve’s thigh, encouraging him and pulling him up as softly as he can bring himself to. His stubble drags across the sensitive skin of Steve’s thigh, reddening it a little more than it was after last night – but Steve doesn’t mind. In fact, he touches the skin gently with the hand that was previously clinging onto Bucky’s hair, just to feel the ache. He soon moves back to tugging on Bucky’s head, though, as he moves up his thigh. 

He lets out small noises, which Bucky encourages with small grunts of his own, and whispered praise – Steve’s usually so quiet, so reserved. He tried to muffle his noises, towards the start, but Bucky told him he doesn’t have any neighbours, right now. It might be a little longer before Steve truly lets himself go, but at least he’s coaxed small moans from him, this time. He gets louder the closer he gets, too. Bucky makes sure of that. 

From between Steve’s legs, Bucky smirks at Steve’s reddening face; he’s already perspiring, and biting his lip, his mouth pulled up at both corners. He’s never seen Steve Rogers look that happy. And he made it happen himself. That’s a pretty amazing feeling. Maybe it’s even as great as he’s about to make Steve feel. 

-

It’s a good day at work, for Bucky: he gets a couple of repeat orders in – not least, one from Natasha, whose current costume is now riddled with bullet holes – and gets to work on them right away. However, he’s drowsy all day; the warmth of the workroom, and the gentle sunlight streaming in through the windows, both make him want to fall right back to sleep. It was a busy night, for him, after all. He smiles when he thinks about it. 

He doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep at his desk until he starts awake, at the sound of a raised voice from one of the back rooms: he glances up at the clock, and sees that it’s 7 pm. He should be long gone by now. He cringes, jumping up from his stool as quickly and quietly as he can, and breaks for the door – before realising that he’s left his backpack in the break room. It’s got his ancient laptop in it. He can’t go home without that. _Fuck_. 

He takes a deep breath, and goes into stealth mode: his boots tread softly on the floor, and he tries not to let them squeak; tries not to let his tight jeans rustle too much, in case he’s heard. He hears footsteps, and tenses, ducking out of the way of the doorway to the corridor: he pokes his head around the corner, and sees Rumlow moving from one room to another, before closing the door. The room Rumlow works in is past the break room. _He can do this._

He steps quickly into the break room, and grabs his backpack from the table, quickly checking that everything is inside; nothing’s been taken. Some of his best design work is in there. He’s kept all Steve’s designs with him, seeing as he’s been working on it out of hours, too. Every spare moment has gone on Steve, of late, it seems. But he doesn’t mind at all. He’s crazy about the guy. 

He goes to leave the room when he hears a slightly raised voice, from around the corridor – he freezes, on edge for a moment, as he gathers himself enough to start moving again. But he doesn’t move, when he hears what the conversation is about. 

“I think you might well be interested, in this one. We’ve a locator in the costume of another one of the Avengers,” He hears Pierce’s voice say. Bucky feels his mouth go dry. 

There’s a pause: he’s clearly on the phone, with someone. 

“If Hydra finally want their man, I’m in a position to sell you his location. The locator is very discrete. Not even the tailor picked up on it,” 

Another pause. 

“Then let’s talk price, shall we?” Pierce asks. “It won’t come cheap. He’s from the A-list. I’m sympathetic to your cause, but this will rattle a lot of cages in Washington,” 

Bucky swallows thickly – because he thinks he’s put it together. _Steve’s suit. There’s something in Steve’s suit – a tracking device. And Pierce is selling his location to Hydra. Who the fuck did this? How could I let this happen?_

“Just make sure you don’t fumble it, like you did with Romanoff. The new locator will be installed in her suit soon. Make good use of it, this time,” Pierce says reproachfully. 

_Fuck. Natasha. My suit – they saw her coming. I did this. I got her hurt. And now they’re going to hurt Steve. They’ll see him coming, they’ll – they’ll find him when he’s at home – fuck, I’ve got to tell him-_

Bucky steps out into the corridor quickly – the floor squeaks in the silence. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, flinching and screwing his eyes shut as a reflex, waiting for a blow that he feels might now assault him. But none comes: just silence. No movement, no words. 

“Then it’s settled. We’ll talk figures when we exchange the merchandise. Be prepared to pay a very dear price, though. I didn’t have my boy charm him for nothing,” Pierce warns again. 

_His boy?!_ Bucky thinks in disgust, holding back a wretch. He takes his leave, moving as swiftly as he can, bag slung over his shoulder and hand clinging to it with a vice-tight grip. 

He shuts the door quietly behind him, and exits out the back of the store: he fishes his phone from his jeans pocket, not noticing the night’s chill creeping in on his shoulders, down his neck, and through his vest top. 

He sees he has a text from Steve – _don’t worry about not seeing me again, this time. I wreck these suits all the time. I mean, this one looks a lot stronger, but you won’t have too long between my visits._

He smiles almost feverishly despite the urgency of the situation, as he frantically dials Steve. 

“Come on – come on, Stevie, I need you,” Bucky begs the dial tone, as he waits anxiously for Steve to pick up. 

He hears a noise behind him, and turns around to see what it was. 

He drops his phone, as he’s hit on the head and falls to the ground, dazed, the air rushing from his lungs. 

He uses his arm to drag himself through the dirt, clawing his way away from his attacker – who’s upon him again, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him over. As his bleary eyes swim, looking out in the darkness, he just about catches Brock Rumlow’s smirking face, before his boot swings into his head.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around!! Sorry for the random update schedule, work and mental health have kept me from writing this recently. Eh. Enjoy!!

“He can’t have been that good,”  
“He . . . He was. Believe me,” 

Natasha snorts, and throws a handful of popcorn at Steve from across the sofa. She’s sitting with her feet tucked under his thigh, as they watch TV together on her large sofa. But of course, all Natasha wants to know are the details about Steve’s sleepless night, the night before. Apparently, she’s like a bloodhound, when it comes to people who’ve recently hooked up with someone for the first time. 

Well. That, and Steve’s hair was extra ruffled, when he turned up to check up on her this afternoon. She’s been interrogating him ever since. 

“How many hours did you get in the end?” She asks, with a raised eyebrow. Steve tips his head from side to side, considering it.  
“Well – between, uh – in between,” He says, clearing his throat. “Enough. Maybe,”  
“Sure. That’s why you can barely keep your eyes open, huh,” She points out. He rolls his eyes. 

He feels his phone start to vibrate – immediately, he rushes to take it from his pocket. Natasha chuckles.  
“Damn. If I knew you two would hit it off this much, I would have hooked you up much sooner, Rogers,” She points out.  
“Thanks for that, by the way,” He says, pausing to smile at her, before taking his phone out.  
“I mean it,” Natasha says, leaning forward slightly, to touch him lightly on the shoulder. He looks down at her hand, and up at her sincere expression, as she continues, “I’m glad to see you so happy, now. You deserve it. You earned this,” 

He thinks again that peacetime is being kind to him in a way it never has before, in his memory. And he thinks maybe – just maybe – he might agree with her. So he smiles, and nods. 

By the time he looks at his phone, he’s missed a call – he has a voicemail from Bucky, who hasn’t replied to his text yet. He frowns. 

“Uh – sorry, I’m just gonna go and – call him back,” Steve says, standing up, and leaving Natasha’s feet to be cold without his legs to insulate them.  
“Whatever you say, Steve,” She tells him, with a raised eyebrow. She watches him with a knowing stare, as he steps out of the front door of her apartment and into the stairwell. 

He pauses for a moment, thinking about how to be cool, when the memories of last night are fresh in his mind; recounted, at least in part, for Natasha. Even if he didn’t tell her anything in any actual detail, that doesn’t mean he didn’t get a play-by-play account in his head, when he started thinking about it. He takes a deep breath, and checks the voicemail. 

To his confusion, it’s just ambient noise, for about thirty seconds, before the line abruptly disconnects. Perhaps Bucky didn’t even mean to call. Nevertheless, he rings him back, just in case. 

But Bucky doesn’t answer. 

“Hey, Buck,” He says to Bucky’s voicemail. “Sorry I missed you. Uh – missed your call. Obviously I can’t miss you, we only saw each other a few hours ago. Except – I miss being with you, I’m wild about you obviously, I – uh, never mind. I’m – yeah. Call me back when you can. I’m thinking about you. Bye,” 

He hangs up, shaking his head and cringing hard at his own incompetence: he was really fucking awkward. He doesn’t know how to rerecord the message, unfortunately. But, well, if Bucky really is as into him as last night – and this morning, before he had to go, and Steve gave him a lift to work on his motorbike, Bucky’s arm wrapped around his midriff, and his old helmet from before his amputation in place – would suggest, he probably won’t mind. He’ll probably tease the hell out of Steve, for it, though. 

When he goes back inside, he knows his cheeks are pink, from the way Natasha smiles. 

“Come on,” She says, patting the sofa again. “You can keep my feet warm, if you haven’t got to go for a booty call. You can tell me all about it,” 

Steve rolls his eyes, but does as she says. He owes her a lot, after all. 

-

Bucky wasn’t asleep for the journey. In fact, he was still awake when Rumlow snatched his bag; threw him over his shoulder, and carried him to a waiting van, before climbing into the front seat, and talking to someone in a tone of voice too low for Bucky to hear properly. He wouldn’t have even been able to interpret it, in his dazed state, honestly. 

He has experience of concussions. More than once, overseas, he told himself, _you have to stay awake, or you’ll die. If you go to sleep, you’ll die. If you let yourself give up, you will die_. This, to him, is no different. 

So even though his limbs were weak, and he slid around in the pitch black as the van moved, he tried to keep his eyes open; tried to stay alert. 

He didn’t quite manage to keep track of all the changes in direction; all the twists, and turns, and how long it took to get to wherever they went. In the end, he felt like it was a short journey – but, in his altered state of mind, it could have been any length. He thinks he might have lost some time, but he can’t be sure, because when the door opens, and blinding light streams in, it’s quickly extinguished by a hood over his head. 

He struggles to fight, but he’s fatigued from a hard day’s work, and the hit to the head has made him feel weak and nauseous – and he _doesn’t_ wanna throw up in the bag. That said, he still throws a few punches, and definitely lands some kicks in places that hurt. 

He’s quickly flanked on either side by two sets of strong arms, and dragged along kicking and fighting, until they pass through some doors that creak loudly: the space they’re in sounds large, with echoes; drips, and slamming noises from all around. _Warehouse. We must be in a warehouse._

He counts his steps, trying to stay vigilant, as he’s all but dragged through the place – _concrete floors, definitely concrete, the sound when my boots hit is concrete_ – there are some whispered discussions he can’t quite interpret, a little too far from him. They pass through some more doors – his feet catch on the doorjambs, as he kicks and protests – and before he knows it the hood is being tugged from his head, and he’s being thrown to the floor. 

He drags his head up, coughing up a little bit, and willing himself not to be sick: he looks around, and realises he’s in a small room, which has been completely hollowed out, though his eyes swim both with the throbbing of his head and with the searing overexposure to light. 

He turns around as best as he can, dragging himself to the door: it’s little more than a closet, and he has to get free _now_. But as he looks up and sees a man he doesn’t recognise, the door is slammed in his face with the clunk of a heavy-duty lock, leaving him in semi-darkness, the only light a flickering bar lamp above his head. He casts his eyes around for a window, but finds none; the vent, just out of reach, is screwed shut, his hazy mind tells him. 

The outlines of old furniture and shelves, where they’ve prevented the paint from fading, stand out to him like silhouettes of humans too close to an explosion. They jump and blink, as his bleary eyes stare at them, and his head screams at him in pain. His body is bruised all over, from the journey, and his mind is wired – but, at the same time, it’s begging him to fall asleep. 

_But I can’t. It’s not safe to fall asleep. Not even if you know who they are. Not even if you know what they want from you. You should know that, by now, Barnes._

_You should know that by now._

He backs away from the door, propping himself up against a wall and staring at it avidly, listening out for any noises he can, as he sits bathed in low, queasy neon light. He can’t hear anything. He can’t see properly. All he feels is dread, and fear, and _cold_. 

All he wants is to be out of here already, and to sleep. 

But he can’t have either. So he waits. 

-

The next day, Steve accompanies Natasha to Red Star Textiles, to pick up her new costume: Bucky’s been working on it since Natasha’s accident, between designing and making Steve’s new costume, amongst others. It’s simply a remake, and he had the fabric in, he told Steve, so it didn’t take long at all. To Bucky’s chagrin, the next step is for Stark to add his tech to her suit – making the sleek, stealthy design somewhat flashy and eye-catching. _Not much use for a spy_ , he’d grumbled; Steve had tried not to laugh, and Bucky had given him a hard stare he couldn’t maintain for very long, a smile cracking his face soon enough. 

Steve’s looking forward to seeing him again, obviously: he hasn’t even had any correspondence from Bucky since he gave him a lift to work on the back of his motorcycle, seeing him off with a kiss, and smiling all the way home with the sensation of it prickling on his lips. 

But when he holds the door open for Natasha, who’s still walking a little stiffly after her injuries, and steps into the workroom, he doesn’t see Bucky. He looks around, his eyes seeking out the person who made him feel so good just two nights ago; seemed to think the world of Steve, just recently, and yet hasn’t communicated with him since. He suddenly feels even worse about not returning Bucky’s texts, when Hydra made their move a couple of weeks ago. He should have found a second or two to tell him what was going on. 

He hears footsteps down the hall: they’re heavy; a march. Steve straightens slightly, thinking that it could be Bucky, who still walks a little as if he’s on routine manoeuvres, at least when he’s on duty. During his free time, he seems to have more of a swagger – especially when he’s had a drink, Steve remembers fondly. Every way he walks, Steve is wild about, of course. He hopes he never fails to notice these little things about Bucky. 

He’s greatly disappointed when he sees the face of Bucky’s colleague Rumlow appear from the corridor. He smiles at Steve and Natasha, but there’s an edge to his expression that screams of malicious intent, to Steve. And, especially since the serum, Steve’s learned that his impressions are rarely wrong, when it comes to those wanting to do harm to himself and others. 

That, plus he remembers Bucky’s comments about _personal space_. He thinks back to the bruises on Bucky’s arm, as Rumlow looks Steve up and down in a way that makes him more than a little uncomfortable. He folds his arms, puffing out his chest and fixing Rumlow with a hard stare, as Natasha speaks. 

“I’m looking for Bucky,” She says simply, clearly not wanting to interact with Rumlow any more than necessary. Steve wonders whether she also gets a negative impression from Rumlow, like he does.  
“Sorry to disappoint you, doll,” Rumlow says, his eyes sliding from Natasha to Steve, in a way that makes Steve bristle, like he’s directing the pet name at him. Which he _isn’t_ happy about - he shouldn't speak like that to either of them. “He didn’t show up for work, this morning,” Rumlow says, shaking his head, but hardly able to suppress his smirk.  
“Oh. I’ll come back another day,” Natasha says coldly, and goes to turn around.  
“What’s your hurry? Maybe I’ve got somethin’ you’re lookin’ for,” Rumlow tells her. She pauses, before turning around, a disingenuous smile on her face, as her eyes narrow.  
“I’m here for my costume, actually,” She tells him. He nods, and turns around to walk away. As he walks away, he calls back to her,  
“I’d know those measurements anywhere. I’ll bring it to you. Just a minute,” 

Natasha turns to Steve, miming being sick. But Steve doesn’t smile. He just stares suspiciously at the space where Rumlow just disappeared from his view. Natasha taps him on the shoulder, her expression questioning. He looks down at her, unamused, and she knows something’s wrong. He’s usually trying not to laugh at her, by this point, when they're left unaccompanied and she's started joking around. 

When Rumlow emerges, he slams down Natasha’s costume on the desk in front of them, aiming to solicit a flinch from them – neither of them budge. Natasha’s most condescending smile is fixed on her face, as she slides the costume into her hands, and tucks it under her arm.  
“You’re all set and paid up,” Rumlow tells her. “Is that everything today?”  
“No,” Steve tells him. “Where’s Bucky?”  
“Hm?” Rumlow asks, though it’s rehearsed. There’s a glint in his eye that Steve hates.  
“You know. The person you assault when you’re working at the same time as him,” Steve all but growls.  
“Steve,” Natasha says, taking his arm. But he shakes her off.  
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. He hasn’t shown up for work today, as you can see. Lazy guy, that one – but such a sweetheart when you get to know him,” Rumlow says, with a smile Steve knows is specifically designed to rile him. That doesn’t mean he’s unaffected, though.  
“Do you have any idea?” He grits out. Rumlow shrugs.  
“Probably went back to the loony bin. Nice legs, pretty face, but his head – well,” Rumlow says, shaking his head slowly, with a mock expression of concern. “I’d be worried, if I were you, Cap,” 

Steve’s fists clench hard at his sides. He _knows_ Bucky isn’t one hundred percent neurotypical – hell, he isn’t himself – but his past is his own, and Steve hates that Rumlow is sharing this information presumably without permission. He can’t imagine that Bucky told him about that on purpose, either. 

“That reminds me. You need to pay for your suit,” Rumlow says, folding his arms, and fixing Steve with a look up and down.  
“I’ll pay for it,” Steve says, “When I get to see the tailor again. It needs some adjustments,” It sounds more like a warning than a simple statement. 

It’s a lie, actually. The suit is _perfect_ – no adjustments need to be made at all. Bucky, with his great memory for Steve’s measurements, his figure, the lines of his body – he did Steve so proud. And he won’t hand over his money to anyone else. He could never be sure it would get back to him, even in part. 

“. . Sure, Cap,” Rumlow says.  
“If he shows up, tell him I’m looking for him,” Steve says, and adds before he turns away: “And – don’t call me Cap,” 

It’s not until they’re outside, that Natasha says, “He knows. He knows where Bucky is,”  
“. . . I know,” Steve says softly, though his expression is stormy, as they stride down the sidewalk and away from the shop. 

Something is _very_ wrong. 

-

Steve doesn’t feel creepy turning up on Bucky’s doorstep: hell, he’s come around before, it’s not as if he’s _stalking_ him or something. He's just lost too many people he loves to take this lightly. 

Maybe Bucky lost his phone, or it broke; maybe he’s ill, and laid up in bed, with no one to look after him. Those are some of the tamer options that his mind has been dreaming up for him, this past day. 

He tried to phone the police. He tried to look up Bucky’s family, or other people that know him: but he’s only got one name, really. _Bucky_. He mentioned that his surname was Barnes, but Steve's not sure about the spelling; and anyway, he doesn't imagine that it says _Bucky Barnes_ on his driving license, no matter how much he might like that. 

He doesn’t come across anything useful until, after disappearing for a little while to her lock-up at SHIELD's New York HQ, Natasha hands him a profile she had drawn up on Bucky, before she went and had her suit made by him – she didn’t offer it to Steve sooner, she says, because she was afraid he’d be put off. At least Steve knows he’s looking for _James Buchanan Barnes_ , now. He just wished Bucky could have shared that information with him if and when he wanted to, rather than Steve finding out like this. 

“Careful, Steve,” She’d said, as she’d handed over the file, and pointed to a certain marker in the pages. “You might not wanna pull on that thread,” 

She’d looked genuinely concerned. So Steve didn’t read from there on. 

He leaves a message for Bucky’s sister; he rings the VA, and the hospital where most of Bucky’s more serious and technical operations occurred. None of them have heard from Bucky: the hospital and the VA haven’t seen him since he was discharged and last attended group counselling, respectively; his sister hasn’t spoken to him since a few nights ago, which is strange, apparently, as he usually calls every other night to check on her and her kids. 

He’s officially a missing person, as far as Steve’s concerned – but of course, officially, he needs to wait another 24 hours for him to be declared as such. He has no idea where Bucky is, so he feels justified in turning up at his apartment. _Especially_ after how fucking shifty Rumlow was with him earlier; that knowing glint in his eye, and his expression of malice. _Yeah, he knows something alright_ , Steve thinks for the millionth time, as he runs through the scene in his mind over and over again, trying to read any clues from his memories of Rumlow. 

He’s been waiting for a few minutes, now, with Natasha by his side with folded arms: she’s tapping her foot rhythmically, looking both ways down the corridor.  
“Neighbours?” She asks, after a few minutes of silence.  
“No. He told me he didn’t have any,” Steve mentions, looking down at the floor, and placing his hands on his hips.  
“Uh-huh,” Natasha says, and sighs.  
“Look – you can go if you want. I don’t wanna keep you,” Steve says honestly.  
“It’s not that. I’m just – well it’s been a few weeks. I’m ready to get back into the game. And this smells funny,”

Steve bites back a remark about Bucky’s scented candles – which he can’t smell through the door, strangely enough. He could smell them from way off, before. 

Steve sighs, and knocks on the door again: there’s still no answer a minute later. 

“Screw this. Move, Steve,” Natasha says, and he steps out of the way – he watches as she pulls her lock-picks from her pocket, with a raised eyebrow.  
“Uh – I’m not sure that-” He mutters tentatively.  
“Do you want to find him or not?” Natasha asks without looking up.  
“Of course I do,” Steve says, vehemently sure.  
“Come on then,” She says, as the door swings open. Steve remembers all the avenues he went down before getting to the point where he broke into Bucky’s home, to make himself feel better. But when the door swings open onto the dark apartment, there are no candles lit, no food on the cooker, and no clothes scattered on the floor. It’s cold, and abandoned, with coffee cups still sitting a quarter-full on the side. 

All his stuff is here. But it’s obvious that Bucky hasn’t been back here. 

“No signs of a struggle . . .” Natasha says, turning on the light. Steve makes a note to turn it off when they leave, so as not to run up Bucky’s bills. He’ll be back. He’ll come back. Steve’s going to find him. 

“. . . But he’s not moved out. He’s not ghosting on you,” Natasha confirms, frowning as she stares down at the mugs. Her eyes flick up to Steve’s face, as he stares at the fridge. It’s covered in kitsch postcards from his sister and her family; a few friends as well, maybe. _Bucky might not have a lot of those in the city_ , Steve thinks, _but he has them scattered about_. 

“Maybe I didn’t get everything, in the file. SHIELD’s finest don’t always get everything right,” Natasha says. Her tone softens slightly, as she continues, “Is he in debt? – Gambling? Alcohol? . . . Drugs?” 

Steve turns around to her – and he wants to say no. He wants to deny it, point-blank, but there’s no way he can. Even without looking in the area of Bucky’ file Natasha warned him off seeing, he knows Bucky could have even more secrets he knows nothing about. What if he’s not the person Steve thinks he knows? What if he’s in deep with something seriously dangerous, and he’s been hiding it all this time? 

A few weeks isn’t enough to know someone completely . . . But maybe he doesn’t need to know him _completely_ , right now. Maybe he just needs to know him enough – needs to trust that he’s a good judge of character, and he’s got Bucky figured out at least enough to know that this isn’t his fault. 

They had plans – and Bucky would have told him about something like this. He thinks he knows that, at least. 

But . . . Even if he didn’t, it’s not Steve’s place to judge. It’s not Steve’s place to like him any less, because he has flaws; to judge him, when he himself has myriad problems that applying a super soldier serum does absolutely nothing for. 

“I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure – but if he does, it doesn’t change anything. He still deserves my help. I still feel the same,” Steve tells her.  
“We’ve all got secrets, Steve,” She reminds him. He stares earnestly into her eyes.  
“Then let him have his. Whatever’s happened to him, we can find him. We have to,” Steve says. 

Her eyes linger on his for a moment more, calculating, analysing: and finally, accepting. She looks down, and he can see her mind working; processing, planning.  
“Alright,” She says. “. . . I know what to do,” 

-

The light changes suddenly. He didn’t hear footsteps approach. 

Bucky’s eyes screw up against his will, and he draws his left arm to himself, as he uses his right to push himself up against the wall, to stand. He doesn’t remember what his last thoughts were before the light changed – he curses himself, as he realises he must have dozed off. 

His stomach churns, and he winces, trying to attach faces to the silhouettes at the door. But he’s been in the semi-light, mostly unconscious, for way too long – eyes and noses and mouths swirl into one, and make him feel queasy, as bodies enter the very small room and hands grab at him. He’s pulled from the room – without a hood, this time – dragged by both arms out into a corridor with greyish walls, lined by dirty doors, with a concrete floor. He only struggles minimally, his body too achy and his head too hurt to put any real effort in, right now. He needs more sleep. He’s thirsty, and his stomach aches despite his nausea. 

But he’s been hungrier. He’s been thirstier, and more sleep-deprived. This isn’t new to him. He’s a survivor. 

His head dips between his shoulders, and he watches his feet fall into rhythm with the men holding him. He gathers himself, counting up to ten, before raising his head and looking where they’re going. He looks to both sides – _paramilitary. Brick shithouses. Mercenaries, maybe. Rough hands. Practical work. Tough. But I’m tougher._

They head through a pair of double doors, and into a huge room: _a warehouse_ , he thinks, remembering that that same thought had occurred to him an indeterminate number of hours ago. There’s a couple of small windows, high up near the roof, that are letting in light through the grime coating them: _it must be at least early evening_ , Bucky thinks, his head becoming a little clearer with the new point of reference. _It’s been at least 24 hours since I was hit and brought here._

The place smells of damp – it’s cold, too, but then again it might just be the fact that he’s still wearing boots, jeans, and a vest only. Clothes now covered in dirt, from falling to the ground, in a dirty alleyway, with Rumlow standing over him. Now, he sees a few men having a discussion by a large table, covered by a tarpaulin. There are shapes underneath the sheets. He easily assumes what they are. 

He’s lead over to a wooden chair, and thrust down into it. Surprisingly enough, he’s not tied down. He’s too used to this, he thinks, as the men holding him move to speak to the group of men just a few metres away, by the table. 

One man breaks from the group, ambling towards Bucky with a gait that exudes confidence and authority. Bucky’s face drains of what little colour it had, as his face swims into focus – he takes in the unimpressed, calculating features of Alexander Pierce, as he strides towards him, folder in hand. He sits down in the chair opposite Bucky, leaning back and clasping the file in both hands. He examines Bucky, looking him up and down, and making him squirm; his skin crawls, as Pierce’s lips twitch, as he takes in the dried blood on Bucky's temple. The conversation he overhead the night before is suddenly at the very forefront of Bucky's mind. 

He wants to ask a million questions: where they are, who Pierce’s _friends_ are – but the most important question, as he sees it, is,  
“How much are you selling him for?” 

Pierce’s lips peel back over his teeth in an expression too cold to be a smile; his eyes narrow.  
“Smart lad, aren’t you?” He says. Bucky shifts slightly, as he opens up the file – Bucky notices that it’s marked SHIELD. “. . . Not a real man, though. Interesting. We didn’t have people like you decades ago. Now, I doubt there are any real men at all, anymore. Not least Captain America. My father used to look up to him,” Pierce mentions. Bucky’s face twists into a sneering expression of hate, as he processes Pierce’s words.  
“How much?” He repeats. Pierce continues to look through his file.  
“No stranger to this, are you?” He asks.  
“How much?” Bucky growls.  
“More than you can even imagine. Hydra are rich both in assets and vision. Maybe you can grow to see that,” 

Bucky laughs bitterly. “What do you want? Why am I here?” 

Pierce looks up from the file, and shuts it. His hand dips into his pocket, and he takes something out – Bucky’s phone. Bucky looks up at his face, waiting for an explanation.  
“Who did you last call?” He asks. Bucky makes a show of sighing, and rubbing his face.  
“I ordered a pizza. Pepperoni. I was gonna pick it off and feed it to the strays. Don’t pretend you don’t see them in the alleyways,” He lies, straight-faced. 

Pierce laughs humourlessly. “Strays,” He comments. “You would know a lot about them,”  
“I feed them every day,” Bucky says flippantly, deliberately misinterpreting his words.  
“It looks like you’ve been texting this same number a lot. Not labelled in your phone, though,” He says. “I know it can’t be a client, because I warned you off having extra relations with them just a couple of days ago, didn’t I?” Pierce says, and his voice has a disapproving edge which lets Bucky know that he knows exactly whose number it is. 

“. . . You don’t get a say in who I spend my time with, _sir_ ,” Bucky says defiantly. “You can do whatever you want with me, it ain’t gonna change a damn thing,”  
“That remains to be seen,” Pierce dismisses. “. . . So we’ve ascertained that you called the Captain. You left a message. Rumlow caught that - he hung it up for you. It was thirty seconds long in total,” Pierce informs him. 

“Don’t worry. I think I’ve got enough minutes left to call a cab home,” Bucky mutters, running a hand through his hair. It’s dishevelled, by now; it’s been alternately very cold, and very hot, in the room where he was being held; he’s slept, inadvertently, for at least some of the time he was in there. 

“What did the message say?” Pierce asks, clicking over his shoulder – one of his lackeys comes to collect Bucky’s phone, placing it on the table covered with the sheet, in view but out of reach.  
“You don’t want to know,” Bucky says, trying for a cheeky grin. Pierce’s cold stare doesn’t falter. “Seriously. It’s none of your fucking business,” Bucky says.  
“Oh, it is. Ever since you chose to eavesdrop on my business – stick your nose in where it didn’t belong. You told the Captain about the locators, didn’t you? You tried to warn him,” Pierce says. 

Bucky’s mouth suddenly feels dry: that’s exactly what he tried to do, he remembers. Everything was a little hazy, before. _But you failed_ , he thinks to himself. _So now they think you’ve snitched on them, and he’s still in the dark. Fucking perfect, Barnes. Outstanding._

He takes a deep breath, and begins, “. . . I didn’t-”  
“Barnes,” Pierce cuts in over him. “Think carefully about how you answer that question. Do you know what’s under that sheet?” He asks, crossing his legs, and linking his fingers together in a way that’s usually very statesmanlike. But right now, Bucky feels like he’s dealing with the mob. He sets his jaw, bringing his knees together, and placing his hand on the right one.  
“You don’t have to be a genius to guess,” He tells Pierce, who smiles at the small spark of fear in his eyes.  
“You’re right. Especially not if you’ve got . . . A _wealth_ of experience. By now, you must know that there is a level of human pain that can make a man say anything, and say it with conviction. You might even know that better than my Hydra friends, here,” He says, indicating the four men behind him. “And they know it awfully well,”  
“I know it,” Bucky grits out, because it’s true. And he’s never reaching that point ever again.  
“How long were you captive for?” Pierce asks. 

Bucky shuts his mouth, fixing him with a hateful glare. 

“. . . Six months? A year?” He asks, a look of contained glee on his face, as he watches Bucky squirm in a way that he has trouble hiding.  
“398 days,” Bucky tells him. He laughs lowly.  
“That’s a long time. Even for a Sergeant. Especially for a man like you,” He says, looking Bucky up and down; examining Bucky’s smudged eye make-up with a look of distain. “. . . Believe me. These men aren’t arms dealers or extremists. They don’t have any time to kill. They get straight to the point. They’ll have you begging to tell them the truth in hours,” Pierce informs him.  
“. . . Unless I tell you now,” Bucky finishes. Pierce nods.  
“I’m glad we have an understanding,” He says, and his voice is a little softer. Bucky knows he’s about to be offered the carrot, now he’s been shown the stick, any second now. “Wouldn’t you rather go back to your job, today? . . . Wouldn’t you rather not revisit some of the more _unpleasant_ memories?” 

Bucky licks his lips, and looks down at the floor. 

“We don’t want to hurt you. This is just a conversation between an employee, and his boss,” Pierce tries to convince Bucky. “We’ll use violence, if we need to, but you’re a very valued employee. You do some fantastic work. Don’t let an inappropriate relationship ruin your life, son,” Pierce says. 

Bucky feels bile in the back of his mouth, at the phony term of endearment. He represses his nausea, though, and steels himself to look up at Pierce, who asks:  
“What did you tell him, in your message?” 

Bucky knows he could answer _nothing_ – but it could put Steve at risk. They could track him down on a mission, and put him down; hell, they could even follow him _home_ , sneak in and kill him in his sleep. 

But right now, they’re clutching at straws. They don’t know _shit_. And Bucky resolves, once and for all, not to tell them anything. 

He leans forward a little, narrowing his eyes.  
“. . . Fuck you,” He says. 

Pierce smiles. He stands up, and brushes down his trousers; straightens out his suit jacket. He turns to his Hydra enforcers, and nods.  
“I’m calling Rumlow in. Have fun,” He audibly tells one of the men, who smirks at Bucky from his position beside the table. Then he leaves the room. 

All four of the men turn to Bucky, their gazes predatory. 

And Bucky gazes back. He looks down at his hand, and uses his thumb to help crack the knuckles of his four fingers. His toes wiggle in his boots, and his muscles tense and relax, getting the blood flowing. His head still pounds, but he’s worked in worse condition – and for much longer, too. 

So when they approach him, readying the rope, he’s not afraid. It's unpleasant, but not difficult, to get back into the combatant frame of mind. The army made him a weapon, and he hasn't forgotten that, even after a year or two of being a civilian. No matter what he's done, or what he does, this is always what he'll be underneath. 

He's ready.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting!! This is the last chapter, the next one will be an epilogue. Cheers!!

“10:4, sir. I’ll be there ASAP,” 

Rumlow hangs up the phone, his smirk growing ever wider as he processes his orders: he’s needed at the docks tonight. Looks like Barnes doesn’t want to talk after all – Rumlow can’t say he’s disappointed. He’s always known the guy has a defiant streak a mile wide in him. One that Rumlow’s been itching to beat out of him. 

He makes his way to the place where he keeps his piece: a study, of sorts, that's usually locked up tight while he's out; he turns on the lights, and breathes in the scent of scrapbooks and carefully folded canvas material. The window is one-way, and no one’s allowed inside but him. He doubts anyone else could truly appreciate his collection of . . . _Memorabilia_. 

He makes his way to the desk, and opens up one of the draws: he reaches for the false bottom, and reveals the case he keeps his .45 inside, thinking about how he’ll _finally_ get the fear and respect he’s wanted from Barnes, ever since he first deigned to push him out of his ‘personal space’, a while back. Barnes should have been used to it – no one gets anything that’s truly _theirs_ in the army. They just have to _take it_. Rumlow doesn’t like when that doesn’t go according to plan; when people don't respect that, and respect him. 

He opens the case – and frowns down, realising that his piece is nowhere to be seen. It's then that he hears a noise, from elsewhere in his apartment – he turns to the door, striding for it, until-  
“Quite a collection,” 

He stiffens, and turns around: where before there was no one, he can now see the Black Widow standing beside his desk, aiming his own gun at him. He glances up, and curses himself inwardly as he realises that the attic door is open. She must have been in there the whole time; dropped down without him hearing it. He doesn't know how the hell she managed it, though. 

He doesn’t let his surprise or disgruntlement show on his face, though: he smirks, just as before, as he tells her,  
“Shouldn’t you have learned not to play with guns by now, Romanoff? Probably got some pretty impressive scars. Shame,” He tells her.  
“Don’t worry,” She says coldly. “We’re not here to play,” 

She looks over his shoulder – Rumlow turns, and sees a figure standing in the doorway: Steve Rogers. He’s wearing his new uniform, which Rumlow is delighted to see – he installed the tracking device in it himself, after all. Rogers is holding his shield at his side, practically heaving with rage, as he stares deep into Rumlow’s eyes, and sees nothing but ridicule, and hatred. 

“You’re right. It wouldn’t be very fun with Rogers involved,” Rumlow says, turning back to her and leering. “Doubt he’s ever had a dirty thought in his life,”  
“Cut the shit,” Steve says, as Natasha rounds on Rumlow, bringing herself to stand beside Steve. “Where are you keeping him?”  
“Who?” Rumlow asks with a smile of amusement.  
“He’s not gonna ask again. Barnes’ location. Now,” Natasha says, cocking the gun.  
“I haven’t seen him in days,” Rumlow lies. 

Steve looks to Natasha: she looks back at him, as he nods. Calmly, she takes a small disc from her belt, and throws it at Rumlow – he drops to the floor immediately when it latches onto him, convulsing, letting out noises of agony as his body jerks through the electric shocks. Even when they’re over, he still spasms, his muscles growing taut and relaxing with painful frequency. 

“That was just to drop you,” Natasha says, planting her foot on Rumlow’s chest, with Steve approaching right beside her. “Think you might want to speak up before I really get going?” 

Rumlow’s face twitches into something like a smile. He lets out a small, stifled laugh.  
“Hydra have been doing this since before you were born, darlin’,” He grits out. “I worked for them for – for fifteen years, before I worked for Pierce,” He says. “They taught me to be so much worse than you,”  
“I really doubt that,” She says, sliding her foot to his throat, causing him to choke. 

It’s then that Steve’s phone rings. His look of absolute ire is tinted with surprise, as he listens to the sound – both Natasha and Rumlow glance up at him, as he takes the phone from one of the pockets Bucky included on his belt, and checks the caller ID. 

He tries not to let his surprise and shock show too much on his face – _Bucky_. 

Natasha can read the screen from where she’s standing; she lets out a small warning – “Steve . . .”  
“I know,” He says, because he does. Whoever’s calling him, it probably isn’t Bucky. Most likely, it’s the people holding him – wanting to demand some kind of ransom, or even just wanting to taunt him. But he thinks he can face it, whatever they’re asking for, or going to say to him. 

He answers the call, bringing the phone to his ear. 

“Who is this?” He asks.  
“Uncle Sam. I just wanted to say thanks for keeping the American Dream alive,” Bucky’s voice grits out, on the other end of the line.  
“Bucky?!” He asks, surprised that it’s actually him. “Where are you?!” He asks.  
“I – don’t know. Some kind of warehouse. The docks – smells like fish and gay sailors,” He jokes, though he’s clearly pressed for time. His voice has an urgency to it which makes Steve think that, while he’s trying to set Steve at ease and convince him that he’s going to be okay, the opposite is more likely to be true.  
“Do you know the warehouse number?” Steve asks, trying to keep his voice calm, so as to not give anything away to Rumlow.  
“No – listen, Steve – they’re coming. They didn’t think to tie me up because I – well, because twelve limbs are better than 3, mathematically,” He reasons. “But I can’t find an out. I need you to help me, but-”  
“Of course – we’ll come,” Steve tells him.  
“Just – one thing,” Bucky urges. “They’re questioning me about your suit – and – look, I didn’t put it there, must’ve been Rumlow, Pierce – both of them. There’s a tracker in it. Hydra have me, they’ll see you’re coming – understand?” He stresses. 

Steve looks down at Rumlow, his anger even more evident, as he stares into his dark, calculating eyes – _he tampered with my suit. The suit that Bucky made me – designed especially for me, a labour of love. Then they handed Bucky over to Hydra._

“. . . Understood,” Steve says. “Are you sure you can’t-”

There’s banging on the other end of the line – crashing, yelling – thudding, like blows. There’s a loud clattering noise, which Steve supposes is Bucky dropping the phone.  
“Bucky?! Wait-”

But the line goes dead. Steve huffs out a breath, panting slightly with the adrenaline – his mind quickly processes what just happened, and comes to the conclusion that Bucky is in even more trouble than he was before, now; he’s just put himself directly in the line of fire, to protect Steve. The least Steve can do is go and help him, as best and as soon as he can. 

“Steve?” Natasha asks quietly, slightly uncertain. She couldn’t hear Bucky, on the other end of the line, then. Which means Rumlow couldn’t either. Steve looks from her face, to Rumlow’s – and he smiles slightly.  
“Good news,” He says. “We know where he is now. All you have to do is give us the warehouse number,”  
“Fuck you,” Rumlow spits. Steve looks to Natasha, who smiles down at Rumlow.  
“Don’t worry,” She says. “I can get a number out of him,” 

She casts her gaze around: all over the walls, there are articles about dead superheroes; there are even a few costumes, still bloody, presumably stolen from police evidence and fenced on the black market. The most disgusting thing, though, is the collection of Hydra material in one corner of the room – the red, skull-faced emblem stares back at her from a chipped and battered WW2 helmet, amongst other Nazi memorabilia. 

“. . . I’m going to enjoy it, too,” 

-

It’s nearly midnight by the time they stop working Barnes over. And they only stop because they want to make sure Rumlow doesn’t miss out on the fun – they know he’s really been looking forward to this. He wouldn’t stop going on about pulling Barnes' teeth out one by one; about breaking his legs, and bleeding him dry. Honestly, he was even more unhinged than normal at the prospect of it. So it’s strange that he didn’t turn up an hour ago, like Pierce asked him to. 

Pierce isn’t present, needing to attend meetings in other parts of the city all night – but that’s okay. Hydra agents are all trained in the art of interrogation, and trained to a very advanced level - that's why he gave them this particular contract. But they’re not having much luck today. 

Barnes' head hangs low between his shoulders, muscles taut and quivering, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight against his ties anymore. Blood leaks from his mouth onto his own clothes, his hair falling in his face, but not quite hiding the fact that unbidden salty tears are dripping onto his lap. Nevertheless, they can’t seem to quite translate his pain and loss of dignity into actual results. They still have no idea what he told Captain America about their operations – not the first time, and not the second time, when he managed to break free and knock them all for six. _The element of surprise was on his side – that’s all it was._

There’s a beeping sound from the table that was previously covered with a tarpaulin: one of the agents sidles up to the table, taking a swig of the beer he’s been drinking during his break. _Nothing’s better with an evening of entertainment like this than a couple of cold ones_ , they’ve agreed on, over the past five minutes. 

Amongst the weapons and the various implements they’ve used – and will use – to torture Barnes, the laptop that has the purchased locations of superheroes is making a small noise, indicating that one of the tracking devices they’re keeping tabs on is within 50 metres of their location. From the map it’s showing, and the blue marker that’s flashing at them, they know who it is. 

“Look here. Your boyfriend’s here to save you,” One of the agents tells Barnes, grabbing hold of his face and twisting it up to look at him. Barnes hisses, as his split lip parts, plunging him further into stinging pain. He looks up through swollen eyes at the agent, hatred etched onto his features despite his fear and pain, and spits directly into his eye. 

The agent recoils, wiping his face, and laughing – he grabs a handful of Barnes’ hair, and gets uncomfortably close to his face, eye-to-eye, as he says,  
“Once he’s dead – once we’ve killed him – we won’t have any use for you, now, will we? We won't need to know what you know anymore,” He explains in a calm voice, clearly relishing the idea, despite the fact that the agents have been treating Bucky like a chew-toy for a while now. “Then I think it’s time to get the bone saw out, hmm? . . . Good luck sewing with no hands, sweetheart,” 

Barnes jerks out of his grip, and he barks out a laugh; he pats Barnes’ face with a disingenuous tenderness that makes him squirm. 

“But first, we’ve got to deal with Rogers,” The agent says, turning to his fellow agents, who are arming themselves: there are seven of them, since they called for back-up a few hours ago. “Who wants to kill Captain America today?” 

One man goes to the warehouse office to call Pierce, and update him on the situation, while three of them decide to take Rogers on: they can see he’s trying to hide out the back of the warehouse, inside a garage where supply vans are usually kept. It’s a fair hiding place – strategically speaking – but he’s not counting on them knowing exactly where he is. It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel. 

They make their way stealthily to the garage, approaching the door via the back of the warehouse, and flanking it once they’ve made their approach. They line up beside the door, and signal to one another – _on the count of three. One, two-_

They throw the door open, and fire into the darkness: Rogers hasn’t even turned the light on, so as to be as careful as possible in not being detected. He must be really paranoid about losing Barnes – unfortunately for him, nothing he does makes a damn bit of difference. They’re still gonna kill them both. 

As they make their way into the room, behind a wooden crate, one of the agents almost steps on something: something that’s dully flashing blue, on the floor. It’s a small piece of machinery – _very_ small, like a chip – or – 

“Cap’s locator – it’s a trap!” He yells to his brothers in arms. But when they turn to the door to hustle out of there, they see a dark silhouette instead.  
“Sweet dreams,” Says the Black Widow, as she rolls a canister of gas into the garage, and slides the door shut, locking them in the darkness to pass out from the gas. 

“Three down,” Natasha says into her comms device. 

-

The scene Steve comes across, as he bursts in straight through the front door, is one of three confused Hydra agents trying to communicate with their fallen colleagues: they each cling to their weapons, rigid and perturbed, as they try and figure out what’s happened to them. 

He immediately uses his shield to smash into one, knocking him out cold with a strong uppercut; he barrels into the next, who stumbles, allowing Steve the advantage to acrobatically kick him, sending him flying across the room and bonelessly into a wall; allowing him to straighten in time to meet the third man in combat. He dodges repeated blows from what seems to be the best hand-to-hand fighter of the group – he gets a couple of blows in, as Steve tries to block each one with his shield. 

“Come on!” The Hydra agent taunts, raising an eyebrow as he pants. “Already tasted your _boyfriend’s_ blood. Now I wanna taste yours,” 

Steve’s lip curls, and he fights impossibly even harder, his whole body flying into action in a fit of rage, gritting his teeth and booting him in the gut; as his face flies forward Steve hits it with his shield with a resounding _clang_ , before sweeping his legs from beneath him, sending him flying to the floor. 

“Actually,” Steve pants. “He’s my partner, asshole,”  
He kicks him in the ribs for good measure, before turning to the main reason he’s there, other than to kick Nazi ass – the one he’s doing it all for, the subject of his affection. He turns to Bucky, who he’s done his best not to look at so far, lest he be distracted by how horrific the sight of him so beaten and bloody might be. But he looks pretty much as Steve’s been irrepressibly imagining this whole time. 

Bucky’s hunched over, his head hanging low between his shoulders; Steve zeroes in on the blood dripping from his mouth, and the blood saturating the remains of his left arm, twisting and flooding the pale skin until no tattoos are visible anymore. His legs, chest, and remaining limb are tied fast to the chair with cable ties, holding him up and in position, though he clearly just wants to slump to the floor. 

Steve strides over quickly, stowing his shield in one fluid movement, thanks to Bucky’s user-friendly design – he immediately crouches down, looking up at Bucky’s face, an expression of fear and dread on his own face. 

“Bucky?!” He asks. “Oh, God-” He begins, but stops himself short, before he can sound too panicked. He’s held the hands of too many soldiers he knew weren’t going to make it, to forget what’s best right now. And that’s a gentle hand, pressing insistently enough to bring Bucky around. No matter how many times this kind of thing happens to him, he always prays it’s the last. He wishes Bucky wasn’t living, bleeding proof that his prayers will always go unanswered. Well – _those_ prayers, at least. But Steve would trade Bucky being in his life for Bucky being safe and healthy in a heartbeat. 

But he can’t take this back. All he can do is his best. Peggy tells him as much, every time she sees him. 

“Buck-” He breathes, bringing both leather-gloved hands up to Bucky’s face; the material is slick with blood in seconds, as he cradles Bucky’s cheeks, feeling for breaks as he draws his head up and towards the light. “Hey, look at me-”

Bucky’s eyes screw up against the light, and as his face is illuminated, Steve can see the extent of the damage: though he can’t feel any bone breaks under his fingers, he can see that Bucky’s lip will need stitches; his nose is slowly ebbing blood, probably clotting for the first time in a long time. There’s a worrying head wound, covered in dried blood, that Steve assumes is much older than the rest. 

But as Bucky tries to move, he flinches and groans, freezing the remainder of his left arm, when he finds that moving it is agonisingly painful.  
“Whoa, hey – let me see-” Steve mutters, mainly for his own benefit, because it’s not like Bucky can refuse him, right now. And he _hates_ that. 

He finally looks at Bucky’s left arm, and understands why the entire left side of his vest is covered in blood. He stifles a gasp, not wanting to scare Bucky, as he runs his eyes over what used to be Bucky’s star tattoo – now, in its place, one of the Hydra agents has carved a star deep into Bucky’s flesh – deep enough to reach muscle, by the looks of it. It’s still leaking blood, the deep wounds left open and to the air. No wonder Bucky looks pale. Steve steels himself. 

“It’s – it’s not that bad,” He lies. “Bucky, it’s not that bad. You’ll be fine! Here-”

He reaches for his pocket knife, bringing it up to use on Bucky’s restraints – it’s then that Bucky decides to open his eyes for the first time. He sees the knife first. He panics. 

“No – Mm not gonna t-” He slurs. “Not gonna talk, never gonna – please, ‘m not-”

Steve’s heart breaks, as he shushes Bucky, trying to quieten him down and stop him from panicking too much – the faster his heartbeat, the worse the bleeding, Steve reasons. But as he opens one of the pouches on his belt, retrieving a bandage, he deciphers what Bucky’s trying to say – _I’m not going to talk_. 

“You did so well,” Steve says, down on one knee and at eye level with him, as he stows the knife for a second, reasoning that he needs to make sure that Bucky knows it’s him. “You did so well. I’m gonna help you – just like you asked,” Steve says. He wants Bucky to identify him on his own. He prays that he can manage that.  
“. . . Steve,” Bucky slurs, one side of his lips pulling up a little. “My hero,” 

Steve lets out a bubble of hysterical laughter, knowing that the reason his vision is blurred right now is because he’s fighting back tears – ones of worry, and of relief, and of still-present _fear_. 

“Sure, buddy – I’m gonna try and stop the bleeding, okay? Just – cover it up a – a little bit,” Steve says, before wrapping the limb in the bandage without any further ado. Bucky all but yells, as pressure is applied, but manages to brave it, breathing through the pain, though it makes him shake; makes his toes curl, and his eyes swim. 

“Did so well,” Steve’s saying, muttering a constant stream of praise and reassurances. “I’m sorry – Bucky, I’m so sorry,” He adds, once, and then can’t stop.  
“Steve-” Bucky addresses him, as he ties the bandage tight, like a tourniquet. Steve looks up, wondering if there’s something urgent he has to know.  
“. . . They were gonna take the other one,” 

Steve’s face pales. He doesn’t have to ask for any more detail than that. He feels himself break out in a fresh, cold sweat – one of fear, for Bucky, and rage for the both of them. _How could they even say that? How could they put that thought into Bucky’s mind?_

“Not on my watch,” Steve grits out, going for his knife again. Bucky eyes it very warily.  
“Here-” Steve says, cutting the ties around Bucky’s legs, freeing him to stretch them out from their perpetually bent position with another barely-suppressed groan. Next, Steve moves to his chest – he cuts the tie there, and moves on to Bucky’s right arm as soon as possible, wanting to get him away. 

“Easy – easy-” He murmurs, as he cuts the tie, and Bucky tenses. 

To his surprise, Bucky immediately goes for the gun at his belt – he pulls it from the holster, cocks it in one movement, and fires – Steve jumps at the sound of it, his super soldier reflexes not even quick enough to process what’s happening – until he hears a grunt from behind him, and a _thump_ , as a body hits the floor. 

He looks behind him and sees that, a few metres away, a creeping Hydra agent has fallen, felled by Bucky. His knife lies across the floor, having clattered away from his slack grip. 

“. . . My hero,” Steve repeats back to Bucky with a small, breathless smile, taking his weapon from Bucky’s shaking, pale hand.  
“I know,” Bucky says – then slips gradually to one side. Steve catches him quickly and, though he knows Bucky would probably _hate_ it if he had any sort of coherent say at that moment, he scoops him up into a bridal-style lift, carrying him towards the front door and to a waiting ambulance. 

“Stevie,” Bucky moans, a sound half-way between pain and complaining.  
“I know,” Steve says, as Bucky tucks his face into the crook of his neck; lets his head loll downwards, until his face is unceremoniously pressed into Steve’s chest. _He’s going to have the imprint of that star on his face for hours_ , Steve thinks, though it’s hardly the time and the place. “Just stay with me a little longer,” 

Bucky mumbles something into the fabric. 

“What?” Steve asks, looking down at Bucky, between careful looks around – Bucky won’t pull his ass out of the fire next time, all curled up in his arms like this.  
“. . . Does this mean I get to say I’m an Avenger now?” Bucky asks sleepily, clearly not in his right mind. But Steve can spot the edge of a smile pulling at his face, blossoming and pulling at his lips, though his eyes are closed and he’s bleeding through the bandages and onto Steve’s suit. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, sniffing against a new couple of tears. “You get to be an Avenger,” 

-

They let Steve ride in the ambulance; they don’t so much _let_ him into the procedure room when they arrive at the ER, but no one really wants to tell a bloody, angry-looking Captain America that he can’t come into the room. So, he gets to watch as Bucky – weak, tired, fading in and out of consciousness – is stitched up. 

Steve winces as he watches them inject local anaesthetic into his face, slack with unconsciousness, a couple of times to stitch up his head, and his lip. Once or twice, Bucky wakes up and, though he can’t feel what they’re doing, he panics – that is, until Steve squeezes his hand, and tells him, _it’s okay, I won’t let them hurt you. Just stay still_. After that, he usually passes out again, presumably due to the stress, and the lack of sleep, and the dehydration. The doctors are quick to hook him up with some blood, and some fluids, considering that he lost a dangerous amount of both over the last couple of days. 

Of course, all of this came after the initial surgery on his arm: due to the nature of his injuries, with several days’ worth of concussion to be mindful of, they sewed up the deep cuts under local anaesthetic, warning both Steve and Bucky that he'll most likely have some nerve damage. Bucky’s awake, at least for that part – Steve grips onto his other hand, and keeps his hazy gaze on his face, as they dig in deep into the remains of Bucky’s left arm in order to save it. _I need all of what I’ve got left_ , Bucky slurs. Steve tries to smile through his anguish, and nods in response. 

It takes hours for all the stitching to be done on Bucky: Steve has to leave the room, a few times, so the doctors can perform what they call a _full exam_ ; Bucky can't fully consent to him being there for that, in his state. Steve thinks that term might be a euphemism, but he doesn’t say anything, as they pull a curtain around Bucky. Steve tries not to think about it too much. 

He focuses on finding Bucky's things: he kept muttering about his backpack, containing his laptop and all his designs, and how they took it from him. Steve promised to get it back, in order to settle him slightly. And he doesn't break promises. So, after a few phonecalls, and some stern words and half-truths about important avengers documents being on Bucky's computer, he manages to get it delivered within the hour. 

Steve next sees Bucky when he’s transferred upstairs for recovery: Steve doesn’t have any details about Bucky’s insurance, and he starts to explain that to his doctor – but apparently, Natasha has already beaten him to it, convincing the staff that Bucky’s under SHIELD protection, and comes under SHIELD’s insurance, with all bills payable to them. Steve knows the part about SHIELD protection is true, when he gets to Bucky’s room, and sees armed SHIELD agents guarding it. 

The doctors tell him to take a time out – to grab a coffee, which he does with Natasha, though they don’t speak much. Steve’s deep in thought about how badly he managed to get Bucky hurt.  
“This isn’t on you,” Natasha says to him, at one point. He doesn’t respond to that – at least, not verbally. He stops tapping his finger lightly against the plastic table, and glances up from his black coffee and at her face. She bites the inside of her lip, as she meets his gaze, clearly knowing his thought process – knowing it as her own, maybe, when she managed to get hurt by Hydra. She’s told him before that she never thinks she’s fast enough, or strong enough, or smart enough, as a product of the way she was raised and trained. 

Everyone always used to push her for more, even when there was no more she could give. That way it was always her fault, when she got hurt. She has a hard time convincing herself otherwise even now. 

It’s different when it’s you yourself that gets hurt, though – different when you wear the scars, and have to convince yourself that you didn’t put them there because you’re not good enough. Steve thinks to himself that your mistakes being visible on someone you really care about is in a way much _worse_. 

His body is his body – it wasn’t a great body to begin with, so any damage is still an improvement on the way he was born. But damage to his loved ones he can’t abide.

Bucky looks smaller in a hospital bed. It’s a cliché, but he thinks it every single time one of his good friends is laid up – whether it’s Sam, or Natasha, or Clint – the only difference here is that Bucky’s not an agent, or a superhero. He’s just a soldier, and a tailor - a civilian, now. He didn’t sign up to fight supervillains – just to help people who do, as best he can. He doesn’t deserve this. Steve thinks that it’s him that should be snoozing, breathing softly with his body covered in stitches and bruises, and a drip supplying him with much-needed fluids. On him, bruises wash away like mud under a hot shower – on Bucky, they might stay for weeks. And that’s without even considering the psychological impact of what he’s faced. 

Bucky looks vulnerable: for some reason, the fact there are armed SHIELD agents outside the door just makes Steve more nervous – even though they’re there _just in case_ , ostensibly, it means there still must be a grain of truth to Steve’s fears that Hydra might try and come back for Bucky, to hurt him again, or worse. Rather than reassuring Steve, it makes him want to sit perpetually with his back to Bucky, facing the door, in case anyone tries to come in and hurt him some more. 

But he also wants to check that Bucky’s still with him. He’s lost too many soldiers – and way too many friends. 

Bucky wakes the following morning, stirring and coughing a little, with his face screwing up – a small groan escapes his lips as he does so, and Steve realises it must be in response to the stitches in his face. 

“Don’t worry,” Steve says softly, setting the book Sam lent him (that he’s had trouble concentrating on, honestly) down on the bedside table, and leaning in a little, “You’re still the most handsome guy in the room,” 

He offers Bucky a cup of water, and he slowly props himself up on his right arm to drink from the plastic cup – his eyes close yet again, simply savouring the cool sensation of it sliding down his dry throat. Steve’s eyes flick to the pain medication the doctors have supplied Bucky with for the millionth time, and he thinks that it must be making him even thirstier. But they can deal with that, though. 

“Now I know that’s a lie,” Bucky finally responds, as he lies back. Despite his dire situation, he smiles lazily at Steve. He settles in, for a minute, eyes slipping shut again for a little while longer – before he finally asks, “Are you okay?” 

Steve huffs out a relieved laugh – Bucky’s speaking, and he seems fairly cognizant, which is always a concern with a concussion that hasn’t been treated properly. He’d hate for Bucky’s personality to change, as a result of an awful mess he managed to get him into.  
“You must have better questions than that. You’re the one who was caught by Hydra. Why do you care how I’m doing?” Steve asks. Gradually, Bucky’s eyes slip open again. His smile hasn’t faded at all.  
“Because,” He murmurs. “I gotta know if the suit did me proud,” 

Steve laughs a little, his head ducking between his shoulders. His forearms shift, where they’re resting on Bucky’s bed. 

“It was great. Perfect, Buck. Absolutely perfect,” He reassures him. Bucky’s eyes shut momentarily, and he lets out a relieved sigh.  
“Good,” He says. “. . . Sorry about the locator. I swear I didn’t know,” He says, looking at Steve again, with a troubled and apologetic expression.  
“ _You’re_ sorry?” Steve says incredulously. “Buck, you got beat to hell because of me,”  
“No. I got beat to hell because of _me_. You came in and saved my ass,” Bucky says. “. . . And my ass is very grateful,”  
“Good to hear,” Steve says quietly. He pauses, for a second more, before he tries again: “. . . I’m sorry, though. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be in this state,”  
“You’re right. I’d still be makin’ suits for superheroes that a bunch of Nazis would use to track 'em down and kill 'em when they were least expecting to be attacked,” Bucky says, shifting a little as he awakens a little more, his eyes growing a little brighter. 

Steve sighs, and looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know how to say what he wants to say – every time he tries to break into the topic, Bucky’s got an answer. It’s probably best to get this over with. 

“Alright, but – listen, I think – I think it’s best if I don’t, uh . . . If I don’t put you in any more danger. I don’t want you to be a target or nothin’, Buck,” Steve tells him.  
“. . . Wait, what?” Bucky says, sitting up a little more, and shaking his head to clear it. “Say again?”  
“I think maybe you should – we shouldn’t spend time together, in case you-”  
“In case I what?” Bucky asks, seeking eye contact with Steve. He looks a little angry. “Steve, I’m not some damsel in distress. I can handle myself and I know what I’m gettin’ into,”  
“But-”  
“No, Steve,” Bucky says, shaking his head. His face is a little red – around the eyes. Steve shuts his mouth abruptly, when he realises he’s upsetting Bucky. “No,” He repeats. “See, this coulda happened if I’d stayed late workin’ any night – workin’ on Danvers’ suit, or Summers’, or whatever. I coulda overheard Pierce’s plans any time. But – the difference is, the others wouldn’t have come for me, like you did. They wouldn’t have even known to look. And I’d be down another arm,” Bucky tells him starkly. 

Steve’s face crumples a little. “Bucky,” He says softly.  
“I – I don’t,” He bites his lip. “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay with me. Please, don’t leave,” Bucky says, and his breathing is getting a little more erratic, as he gets more emotional. “I didn’t have anyone the first time,” He adds more quietly, his gaze flicking to the bandage on the remains of his left arm, covering the stitching that now lines his star tattoo, where they cut deep around it’s edges. They wanted to make it a red star. Show everyone just who he belonged to, in their estimation. Bucky remembers that much, and though it's hazy, it's enough to make him balk. 

“. . . The first time,” Steve says, frowning. Something tells him this is to do with the section of Bucky's file that Natasha told him not to look at, to retain Bucky's privacy - something Steve doesn't know about at all, right now. 

Bucky shuts his eyes. The action squeezes a pair of tears from his eyes, as he calms his breathing.  
“This . . . It wasn’t my first time as a – _prisoner of war_ , actually,” He says, audibly trying to keep his voice even.  
“Before the IED?” Steve asks softly. Bucky smiles bitterly down at his left side.  
“After it,” He says, and Steve frowns. “The blast wasn’t that bad. But I got caught in the riots – arms dealers, or somethin’ . . . Never did find out. Didn’t speak the language,” 

He takes a deep breath, and looks down at Steve’s hand: he moves to gently take Steve's left ring and little fingers, and brings them to his damaged lips to kiss softly. Steve licks his lips, watching completely enraptured, as he rests them back down on the bed again, taking Steve's hand properly for strength. 

“I didn’t lose my arm in the blast. Just those two fingers. But . . . The longer I was prisoner . . . They got infected. So painful, so – so painful. By the time they made the rescue – got me back home, they wanted to try and save the arm,” He explains, his voice growing a little shakier at the memory of the pain. “. . . I said no. I was so scared to die, while I was captive. I just wanted to live. If I let them keep operating on my arm, the infection could have spread, and I could have died. It would have all been for nothing. My life was worth more than my arm. I told them to take it – and the infection with it,” He explains. 

Steve takes a deep breath, squeezing Bucky’s hand, as he listens to the story.  
“I can’t imagine making that decision,” Steve he murmurs. Bucky smiles, the expression bittersweet.  
“Please, Steve. You let men in white coats change every cell in your body to win a war,”  
“It’s not the same. I . . . I was small, before. I had scoliosis, and I was partially deaf – a little blind, I had asthma – you name it, I had it . . . The procedure got rid of all of it,” Steve says.  
“It gave you a better life. My procedure gave me a better life, too,” Bucky explains. “No pain. I don’t regret it at all. And . . . I got to do what I do,” He says, smiling down at his knees, beneath the sheets. 

His smile drops from his face, eventually. 

“Did they arrest Pierce?” He asks, looking up at Steve. He nods.  
“He’s got an army of lawyers. But you’re living proof that he’s involved with Hydra. None of them are getting away with it,” Steve tells him, vehemently sure.  
“And Rumlow?” Bucky asks apprehensively. 

Steve looks down sharply. 

“. . . Yeah. Natasha took care of him,” Steve tells him euphemistically.  
“Took care of him?” Bucky asks, looking worried. Steve smiles, and quickly sets his concerns to rest:  
“Please,” He says. “You know Natasha. She got a confession out of him. And believe me when I say you’re never gonna have to see him again. He’s in SHIELD custody. He’s not getting out any time soon,” Steve explains. 

Bucky visibly relaxes, looking much less tense, like a tightly coiled screw: his eyes slip shut, for a second, and he takes a deep breath.  
“Looks like I’m out of a job, then,” Bucky mentions. “. . . Unless you were serious about me being an Avenger now,”  
“You remember that, huh?” Steve asks, sitting back on his chair and into a relaxed posture, mirroring Bucky’s relief.  
“Yeah. Remember you carrying me out of that place. After that – stitches,” He says, wincing.  
“Sorry,” Steve says.  
“Don’t apologise again or I’ll kick your ass,” Bucky warns Steve. He snorts softly – but then realises Bucky’s face has clouded over. He asks tentatively, “Did . . . Did I shoot someone? I think I shot someone,” 

Steve nods, confirming it.  
“You did. Hydra agent – coming up behind me. I wasn't paying attention,”  
“My face has that effect on people,” Bucky mentions, but his heart’s not in the joke. He’s looking out of the grey window, and out into the brightening skies of the city, distracted. 

Steve leans forward and takes his hand again, stroking bruised knuckles and grazed veins, as he uses his other hand to turn Bucky’s face back to him.  
“He survived, you know. He’s going to jail,” Steve mentions. Bucky lets out a relieved breath – he didn’t come home just to kill more people. Nevertheless, Steve adds, “You did what you had to, Buck. Whatever the outcome. I owe you my life,” He reminds him.

“. . . I’m sure you can pay me back, somehow,” Bucky tells him, with a grin only slightly marred by the presence of stitches in his lip. Steve chuckles at how _Bucky_ that answer was. 

“You know,” Steve breathes. “I think I’d kiss you right now, if you didn’t have stitches,”  
“Don’t let that stop you,” Bucky murmurs, enticing Steve with his eyes. “If you can stand the sight and the smell of me right now, you can stand being up close, right?”  
“I just don’t wanna hurt you,” Steve confesses, though he’s already rising from his chair, and drawing in closer.  
“Then don’t,” Bucky suggests helpfully, though his voice is very soft, and barely audible, in anticipation of Steve getting nearer, offering a comforting touch that he suddenly finds he very much needs right now. 

Steve leans in, getting up close to Bucky’s face – and turning his head at the last second, kissing Bucky’s cheek, still holding his hand, but caressing his cheek with his other hand. That hand slips up his face, brushing Bucky’s hair from his face; stroking the shaved part of his head, and tucking the long part behind his ear. Bucky tilts his head, as Steve slips down, kissing his bruised neck. He lets out a happy sigh, as if he’s decompressing, and Steve’s suddenly struck by how trusting he is, when it comes to him – how he doesn’t flinch away from Steve’s hand, trying to wipe away the bruises from his pale skin, despite every unkind touch and blow he’s experienced these last couple of days. 

“Thank you,” Bucky whispers. “Thank you for coming for me,” 

Steve pauses, stilling – Bucky freezes, worried he’s upset Steve.  
“I’ll always come for you, Buck,” Steve tells him.  
“. . . Is that a promise?” Bucky asks, a tone of amusement in his voice. Steve pulls away, enabling Bucky to see his eye roll.  
“James Buchanan Barnes,” He chides. “Will you ever stop trying to drag me down to the gutter with you?”  
“Maybe if you call me _James Buchanan Barnes_ , I will,” Bucky says, raising one grazed eyebrow.  
“Sorry. I won’t do that again,” Steve apologises. Bucky smiles.  
“Nah. It’s okay. Just don’t do it again, Steven Grant Rogers,” He says, with a small grin. 

Steve sighs, and sits back – Bucky looks a little disheartened at the loss of contact, but doesn’t say anything. Thanks to both of their efforts, they’ll have plenty of time for that, when Bucky isn’t tender all over, and covered in stitches and bruises; when Steve doesn’t have to treat him like he’s fragile, in case he makes matters worse. 

“About you being unemployed,” He says. Bucky shifts slightly, wondering what he’s getting at.  
“You wanna talk about how I’m gonna provide for us?” Bucky jokes.  
“. . . Well, if it comes to that,” Steve says, raising one eyebrow.  
“What about it, anyway?” Bucky asks.  
“I think Nick Fury’s gonna want to talk to you,” Steve says, with a conspiratorial smile. 

An almost identical smile spreads across Bucky’s slightly drowsy face. Steve can’t help but think, though he’s mottled with bruises and stitched up in a variety of places, that he’s beautiful – maybe the most beautiful he’s ever seen him, hospital gown and all, simply because he’s here, and alive, and he’s looking at Steve like he hung the moon. 

He’s alive, and he trusts Steve, and he craves his touch; his conversation, and his _presence_. 

He only half hears Bucky ask about if Nick Fury is as intimidating as he always looks on the news, because as he observes the dark circles under his eyes shift and his crooked teeth shine as he smiles, he’s a little preoccupied with realising that he loves Bucky Barnes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it!! The final part of the story. Thanks for sticking with it - and thanks to jay for listening to me go on and on about this shit, and for my friends on twitter who've supported me in writing it. Another one bites the dust!!
> 
> Enjoy :^)

EPILOGUE 

Natasha’s drink, at the end of the bar, splashes as an olive lands in it. She startles, looking down from her conversation with Pepper – her gaze is drawn, too, to the now shaking martini. She glances up, and across the bar: at the far end, she can see a very drunk Clint, flanked by Steve and Sam who are both laughing and patting him on the back, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Told you I could still do it,” Clint slurs, a sloppy grin on his face.  
“Guess I owe you ten bucks,” Steve says, not quite believing that Clint made the shot while this drunk.  
“Give me enough for another drink and we’ll call it even,” Clint says.  
“Considering it’s an open bar, I think you’ve had enough,” Sam reminds him, sniggering slightly. Clint slips off his bar stool, and Sam catches him with a slightly startled noise. “Jeez – hope no one else saw that. Pretty embarrassing to get this wasted at your own party – wouldn’t you say so, Steve?” Sam asks, grinning up at Steve. 

But Steve’s distracted: he’s looking across the room. By one of the large windows, leaning against a tall table and nursing a very fancy-looking cocktail as he talks to Wanda, is Bucky. Steve honestly hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of him, for the most part, all night – he knows it’s Clint’s birthday party, which he himself helped arrange, but the way Bucky looks tonight is driving him wild. 

Well – not _just_ tonight. But the way the two of them looked turning up arm in arm drew every single pair of eyes in the room, tonight. 

Steve’s wearing a new, black suit – tailored for him by none other than Bucky, of course – and a deep blue tie, which compliments Bucky’s rich red blazer. Similarly, Bucky’s tie is black; the exception to the matching suits is that Bucky’s wearing a short black skirt. He’s not wearing any tights, either. And in those boots, he’s got legs for _days_. They were a little late to the party, after Bucky invited Steve to stroke them, right after he shaved. 

Steve watches as Bucky gestures with both hands: his flesh one, and a metal one, developed by SHIELD’s best and brightest as a mechanical prosthesis, with limited manoeuvrability. As usual, he’s wearing it tonight so that the cut of his shirt and blazer is correct and optimised, rather than because he doesn’t want the Avengers to stare. He’s met them all briefly before, for the most part – well, except Wanda, who he appears to be getting on with like a house on fire. 

But the arm is, he’s admitted, much better than any old prosthesis he’s had in the past: he can cover the hand with a glove, out in public, and he doesn’t have to worry at all about what people think; doesn’t have to worry about them staring, and drawing their own conclusions about him. Sure, since Hydra took him captive a couple of months back, he’s been to the firing range a few times – the city isn’t safe, especially for a genderqueer pansexual amputee, even if their boyfriend is Captain America – but it’s still nice to have a few of those wandering eyes diverted. 

He still prefers tailoring with no prosthesis, though: even with the numbness he experiences in some of his left upper limb, he’s used to working with it by now – another arm just gets in the way, apparently. If he’s honest, that’s how Steve likes Bucky best, anyway: soft, and unassuming, yet _strong_ in his confidence in who he is, and what he can achieve, without thinking about anyone else’s expectations. 

But there is a certain charm to the way his hand flashes in the low light of the Avengers tower communal room, and the light from the skyscrapers that surround them, blocking out the stars, but letting the moonlight through. 

“Steve?” 

Steve looks back to Sam, who’s now got Clint’s arm looped around his neck.  
“I was just saying that I think the birthday boy here’s had five too many. You think I should take him for some air?” Sam asks.  
“Definitely,” Steve says, with a smile. “Here, I’ll help you-”  
“No way,” Sam says. “I don’t want you looking like a lovesick puppy next to me all evening. Go talk to Barnes,”  
“. . . Okay,” Steve says, a little embarrassed. He feels like a hormonal teenager, _still_ , and it’s been months. He and Bucky are just meant to be, he guesses. He hasn’t really let Bucky know that yet, though. “Take Natasha with you. She’s got more experience in this area,”  
“10:4, Cap,” Sam says, before helping Clint stumble over to a very put-upon Natasha (and a very amused-looking Pepper). 

So Steve makes his way over to Bucky. 

“I really like the whole – the look you’ve got going on, I’ve gotta say,” Bucky’s saying, waving his flat palms at Wanda, with a practised eye. “Plus, you’ve got a beautiful complexion,” He adds.  
“But you would like to design something for me yourself,” Wanda finishes, with a raised eyebrow.  
“Well,” He says. “I can't help but think about it, when I’m looking at someone so beautiful,” He tells her. Sure, he’s got SHIELD tailoring work to do – he’s officially an employee, now – _and_ private commissions for non-SHIELD superheroes. But he could definitely fit Wanda in for a consultation. 

“What would you change, then?” She asks him. He takes a breath.  
“You usually wear a dress, right?” He says. She nods. “I think you’d be better off with something that gives the illusion of a dress – but that doesn’t expose your legs. So, like – something tight, but flexible. Then-” He takes a marker pen from his inner blazer pocket, and grabs the napkin from the bottom of his drink. He uses his prosthesis to hold the napkin in place, as he sketches something out. Wanda’s dark eyes follow him, and she watches on, intrigued, as he quickly sketches something. A few strands of hair that he didn’t catch in his bun fall in his face and, despite the relatively low light and the stubble covering his face, she can see that he’s got an expression of utmost concentration on his face. 

“. . . Okay. See? So it’s like – a coat. But it’s reinforced around the thorax, abdomen - and it has a belt and pockets, just in case – first aid, and stuff,” He tells her, and she nods. “But it flows at the bottom,” He adds, waving his hand at the napkin. She slides it across the table towards herself, to get a better look, as he finishes: “So it’s sort of similar to a dress. But it means you can adapt to your climate, you can wear layers underneath, _and_ you don’t have to worry about exposed legs. Plus, it would look great with a pair of boots,” 

Wanda looks up at him from the napkin, her painted dark lips smirking. He smirks back – he’s gone for a similarly dark shade, on his own lips, tonight.  
“I see why Rogers likes you,” She tells him. He smiles.  
“I could say the same, ma’am,” He replies, with a wink. 

It’s then that Steve approaches, placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder: Bucky turns to him, wrapping his prosthetic arm around his waist, and drawing him closer.  
“Stevie,” He says, and takes a long swig of his drink. “I was just getting to know Wanda,”  
“He was designing me a whole new outfit,” Wanda chips in.  
“I thought we said no talking about work at the party?” Steve says, raising an eyebrow at Bucky.  
“But you were all the way over there,” Bucky complains. “. . . I never thought you’d find out,” He adds, looking at Wanda.  
“I am sorry,” She says with a smile, “Perhaps I can make up for it by allowing you to make this outfit for me?” She asks.  
“I’d be honoured, Miss. Maximoff,” Bucky says. She reaches out her right hand, and he takes it, and shakes it.  
“Then we have a deal. Don’t lose that napkin, now,” She says, and Bucky stuffs it into his inner blazer pocket along with his pen, as she walks away to join the others at the bar. 

“And here was me thinkin’ I was special,” Steve says with a smirk, as Bucky turns to him, still holding him around the waist.  
“You are special, Stevie,” Bucky reminds him. “Don’t think I’d let just anyone feel my legs right after I’ve shaved. Especially not for how long you did. Especially not with their mouths,”  
“They felt really good!” Steve says defensively. “And anyway – don’t change the topic,”  
“It’s my job, babydoll,” Bucky points out.  
“Yeah, well – it’s your day off,” Steve mentions, blushing a little at the crooned pet-name. 

“Hmm,” Bucky says, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth, and staying close, to whisper to him. “Good. Because I’ve got something for the weekend at home,”  
“Oh yeah?” Steve whispers back, his face burning already.  
“Yeah – something I think you’ll like,” Bucky says, licking his lips so Steve can feel the wetness against his ear when he speaks. Steve’s hands move around him to grip his ass, bunching up the material of the skirt dangerously high – he’s thankful that they’re in a darker, less noticeable corner of the room, right now. Not that Bucky cares, he knows. 

“The new arm’s not the only bit of hardware I’ve got recently – and it's definitely not the most fun bit,” Bucky says.  
“No?” Steve asks, slightly breathless, now, as his mind races. Bucky shakes his head, taking Steve’s earlobe gently between his teeth for a moment, making Steve sweat.  
“Only, this thing’s not made of metal. And it definitely doesn’t go on my _arm_ ,” 

He draws back, bringing up his right hand to Steve’s face, which is blushing even harder – he thinks he knows what Bucky’s getting at, now. Bucky’s hand strokes his cheek, as he withdraws.  
“. . . But that’s for after the party. Right now, I wanna get a few more drinks in,” Bucky tells him, winking and slinking off to the bar. 

Steve lets out a deep breath, and casts his gaze around, not believing that Bucky decided to tease him like that in the middle of a party consisting exclusively of his friends and colleagues. 

_Yup. Bucky’s gonna get it tonight._

-

Bucky’s grinning wickedly at him, as it approaches midnight, and they stagger out of the elevator and to Steve’s front door: Bucky’s been unofficially living with him for a few weeks, now, leaving more and more of his clothes with him, as well as his toiletries, and his collection of sci-fi books and what he calls ‘painfully alternative’ music. Steve still doesn’t really know what that means, but he likes Bucky’s music a lot. Listening to it feels like understanding him a little more. 

He crowds Bucky against the door, fumbling in his suit pocket for his keys – but Bucky has other plans, tugging Steve in by the lapel he lovingly stitched. Steve gives up the search for his keys, for now, and lets his hands slide down to Bucky’s hips. They trail down to his ass, grabbing handfuls, as Bucky kisses him near senseless. 

Steve grunts, as he hoists Bucky up, swallowing down Bucky’s noise of surprise as he holds him up against the wall. His skirt rides up, and Steve hands slide up his legs, gripping onto his thighs. Bucky’s calves wrap around his back, feet linking together, held up against the wall by Steve’s strength alone. 

“Boy,” Bucky pants, “If I’d known you liked me in skirts so much, I woulda used it against you ages ago,” He gasps as Steve squeezes his ass again, this time from underneath his skirt. Steve can feel a _lot_ of bare skin, just under the silky material.  
“. . . Are you wearing underwear?!” Steve asks. Bucky shrugs.  
“Yeah, but – well, they’re prettier than normal,” He confesses. Steve has a feeling that means _much, much smaller_. Steve grins, and gets back to kissing Bucky hard, licking into his mouth; losing himself in the feeling of his lips; tugging on his hair with one hand, pulling desperate sighs from Bucky like it's the best thing in the world. 

His tongue slides across the small scar on the right hand side of Bucky’s upper lip – _the part that needed stitches_. Especially with Bucky’s stubble there’s really not much to see, there, but Steve can feel it when he kisses Bucky as hard as he perpetually wants to, all hours of the day. It’s just a reminder of Bucky’s loyalty, and how far he was prepared to go to protect and defend Steve. 

It’s a reminder of what Steve means to him. Granted, it’s something Steve wishes never had to be explicitly shown incarnate – but it’s there, all the same. And, selfish though he knows it is, Steve loves it. 

Just like he loves the rest of Bucky’s scars. 

He pulls away from Bucky, who groans slightly, following his lips as far as he can from his position up against the wall. He takes the chance to use his right hand to pull his hair from its bun, and let it fall wildly around his shoulders. One of Steve's hands threads in it, for a second, tugging gently and watching as Bucky responds - he's almost as sensitive as Steve is, when it comes to his hair. Steve can't look away when his eyes flutter shut, and his mouth hangs open so wantonly. 

“What is it?” Bucky asks eventually, his eyes slipping open again, a look of adoration and intoxication still firmly on his face.  
“. . . Take it off,” Steve says, and it's little more than a soft command. It’s a tone of voice that makes Bucky’s hairs stand on end. _Yup – tonight is a night Steve gets to take control, a little._  
“What?” Bucky asks innocently.  
“The arm. Take it off,” Steve says, shoving gently at the shoulder of Bucky’s blazer, with the hand that was in his hair. “I always like it better when you’re not wearing it,” He adds. 

Bucky licks his lips; takes his bottom lip between his teeth, and smirks – because he feels the same way. He never thought anyone could be really, _truly_ more enamoured with his body when it was visibly scarred, and disabled, for a long time – but back then, he didn’t know Steve. Back then, he could have never predicted what _this_ would be like. He thinks that Steve might understand that - understand that he can't believe that someone loves the real him, not the one everyone sees. 

Bucky with a prosthetic limb is just like Steve as Captain America. They both have parts of each other they try to and succeed in seeing past, to get to the real them. It's a moment of clarity that makes Bucky reel, as Steve kisses his neck. 

“I fuckin’ love you,” Bucky laughs breathlessly. Steve pauses, and withdraws slightly.  
“What?” He asks, dazed.  
“I said I fuckin’ love you. Got a problem?” Bucky asks, manoeuvring himself so that he can take off his jacket, and let it slip to the floor.  
“. . . No. Just that you beat me to sayin’ it,” Steve thinks aloud, honestly surprised. He’s known for months, now, that he’s in love with Bucky – but he didn’t know if Bucky was the type to actually say that kind of thing. Now, he’s wondering if he loved him first; if Bucky loved him all this time, but just needed the alcohol and the heat of the moment to actually _say_ it. 

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Just that it's true. 

“Really?” Bucky asks, leaning in to kiss Steve’s cheek.  
“Really – love every part of you,” He says, turning his face to meet Bucky’s lips. “Your eyes – your hair – your lips – your arm, your chest – your scars-” He says, bringing one hand up to rub over the scar in the shape of a star, on Bucky’s left upper arm, visible where it peeks out from under Bucky’s short-sleeved shirt. “. . . And your ass,” He finishes, with a chuckle.  
“That’s just as well then. I’ve got a big night planned for this ass,” Bucky says crudely. Steve takes that opportunity to squeeze it with the hand still easily supporting Bucky. 

They don’t actually make it into the apartment for another quarter of an hour – every time Steve tries to find his keys, Bucky manages to distract him in some kind of way, each hotter than the last, in Steve’s opinion. 

But when they get inside, he does take off the prosthetic arm. Because when he’s drawing, or tailoring, or when he’s with Steve – for him, nothing’s ever going to be better than doing it one-handed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr @jackbrogers, or where i'm more active on twitter @luckycl0ve :^)


End file.
